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V 



KATY’S BIRTHDAY 



BY SARA O. JEWETT. 


With- 

Other Stories by Famous Authors 



Di LOTHROP AND COMPANY 

32 FRANKLIN STREET 

c 1<8^ Sj 



Copyright, 1883. 

D. Lothrop & Company. 


CONTENTS 


« I. 

Katy’s Birthday 

IL 

. Sara Orne Jewett. 

The Hope Works 

III. 

. . Susan Hale. 


How Jacky went to Church on Easter. 



Elizabeth Barnett Hill. 

IV. 

The Story of Maple Sugar 

^ Rowland E. Robinson. 

V. 

The One-Man Band . 

/ 

. . M. E. P. 

VI. 

The Firm of Punkapog & Boss . 

VH. 

Kate Gannet Wells. 

The Basket Business 

VHI. 

. Mrs. S. D. Powers. 

The queerclover Chronicles . 

IX. 

. John Brownjohn. 

A Case of Coincidence . 

X. 

. Rose Terry Cooke. 

The Apothecary’s Valentine . 

H. B. B. W. 

XI. 

Mr. Tennyson’s Fairies . 

. Joaquin Miller. 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Katy spends her Birthday at Aunt Phebe’s. , 

Jesse McDermott. 

“They leaned upon their little Anchors and 

saluted ” Elsie . . . . Jesse McDermott. 

Now take good Care of Him, Jacky! 

Mrs. Jessie Curtis Shepherd, 

Wungbasah’s Adventures with Mekwaseese. 

W. P. Bodfish. 

“ Want any Hooks and Eyes ? ” . . Miss Phelps. 

An unlooked-for Occurrence .... Boz. 

The four W’s W. P. Bodfish. 

Mrs. Marta finds the lost Specs . . Robert Lewis. 

Grandma had to laugh — Doctor White 

roared Robert Lewis. 


“ Not understand,” said the Apothecary ' 


KATY’S BIRTHDAY. 


ATY was a little girl who lived in the country, 
^ and this was her ninth birthday, and she felt 
very old indeed. She did not wake up until later 
than usual that morning, and her father and Henry 
( the man who helped him do the farm work ) had 
gone away early to a distant pasture to salt the cattle, 
so there was only her mother to make much of so 
great an occasion and to say anything about the birth- 
day. But her father had left a bright ten cent piece 
for her, which was very kind of him, and Henry had 
left a little package on the shelf by the clock, and 
when she opened it, she found it held some candy. 
As for her mother’s present, it was a great deal better 
than the others, though I am not sure that Katy 
thought so. It was a new speckled calico dress ; Mrs. 
Dunley said she had never seen a prettier figure, and 
it was hanging over a chair all ready to be put on 


katy’s birthday. 


when they had finished what there was to do in the 
kitchen. That did not take long, for, as I have said, 
it was already late. 

The day before had been the last day of school, 
and in the evening the scholars had given the teacher 
a surprise party at the house where she boarded, and 
it did not break up until after ten o’clock ; but nobody 
had thought it was so late. Jimmy Manson, one of 
the big boys, had put the clock back an hour, and as 
for Katy — she had never been out so late in her 
life — it is no wonder she could not wake up next 
morning. She fell asleep in the wagon just before 
she got home, and would have gone overboard in two 
minutes more if Henry had not caught her. Of course 
she had to go right to bed, and could not tell her 
mother much about the party that night, but this 
morning she had a great deal to say, while her mother 
asked a question now and then as she went about her 
work ; and she told Katy two or three times that she 
wished she had been there herself. 

After awhile Katy put on the new dress. She did 
not often have a new one, and she liked this very 
much. Her mother said it fitted her beautifully ; it 


katy’s birthday. 


was full large enough, but she would grow to it. She 
sat on the doorstep awhile, feeling very much 
dressed up, and as if this were a most uncommon day, 
being the first day of vacation and her birthday 
beside. 

After awhile she asked her mother what she should 
do. 

I don’t know,” said Mrs. Dunley, “ but you may 
do anything you like to-day. To-morrow you must 
help me in the house, for I shall be very busy. I 
spoke to Cynthia Downs to come and help me, but 
she sent word she couldn’t till the first of the week. 
Your father’s got some men coming in the morning 
and he’s going to begin haying.” 

“ Oh, that’ll be fun,” said Katy, but I am afraid 
she was thinking more of taking the jug of molasses 
and water out into the field, and playing among the 
hay-cocks, and getting a ride on the hay cart, than 
she did of the hard work in the house. ' She always 
liked haying time. 

She thought about this for a time, and then began 
to consider what she should do with her holiday. 
“ I’ve thought of two things,” she said presently; “I 


katy’s birthday. 


don’t know whether to take off this dress and put on 
the old brown one I tore last Saturday and you said 
I couldn’t wear it any more, and go up the brook and 
make dams, or go over where father and Henry are, 
and ride home with them.” 

“ They’ll be home pretty soon,” said her mother, 
“ and you can have a ride then. Henry’s going to the 
store to get some new rakes and tools they’re going to 
use haying. I promised your father’s aunt Phebe 
that you should spend a day with her before long and 
you might as well go there to-day ; you can let Henry 
leave you there. You will have a nice time. How 
should you like that ” 

Katy looked sorry for a minute. She was counting 
on playing in the brook, if the truth must be told, but 
she could do that any day, and she said at once that 
she would go to see her aunt who was a very kind 
old lady, and Katy was not half so much afraid of her 
as she was of most people whom she saw but seldom. 
And then it would have been a trial- to take off the 
new dress when she had just put it on. 

“ You can wear your best hat too,” said Mrs. Dun- 
ley, “ and I want you to take aunt Phebe the rest of 


katy’s birthday. 


those tarts that were made for the surprise party ; she 
likes sweet things. Marthy that lives with her is 
away for a week too.” 

Katy smiled approval ; she liked sweet things her- 
self, and she thought very likely her aunt would ask 
her to eat one of the tarts. 

She did not have to wait long, for Henry came 
earlier than he was expected. Mrs. Dunley said she 
would drive over in the cool of the afternoon and 
bring Katy home, for it would be her last chance to 
have the horse for some time. “ I suppose you will 
want the horse every minute for the next three weeks ? ” 
she said to Henry, and they both laughed, and he said 
they might be even longer haying if it rained as much 
as it did the last summer. 

I s'pose it’s your birthday ? ” asked Henry, after 
they had started, looking down at the top of Katy’s 
head, where the white ribbons of the best hat were 
bravely fluttering. “ Wish you happy New Year,” 
said he. 

“ Why New Year comes in the winter,” answered 
Katy, looking up at him with great surprise. 

“ You’re nine years old to-day, and yesterday you 


katy’s birthday. 


said you weren’t but eight. This is a new year, isn’t 
it ? ” and Katy did not know exactly what to say, but 
she was sure it was not New Year day or Christmas 
either for that matter. 

“ My birthday was a week ago yesterday, and I was 
out of my time ; tell you, I was glad,” said Henry. 

“Why,” asked Katy, “ what are you going to do?” 

“Vote,” answered Henry after having stopped 
some time to think, “ and — well, a good many things; 
anybody likes to be out of their time. You’re your 
own master, you know,” and presently Katy plucked 
up courage to ask him whom his master used to be. 
Which only made him laugh and reach out to strike 
some clover heads with his whip. “You wait till you 
get bigger and you’ll know all about it,” he told her. 

Katy remembered just then to thank him for the 
candy, and there was a piece of it left, so she offered 
him a bite, and then finished it herself, and wished 
there had been more, when Henry gave her two pep- 
permint lozenges which he found in his pocket, and 
she was rich and happy again. 

After driving about two miles, they came in sight 
of aunt Phebe’s house. It stood at some distance 


katy’s birthday. 


from the main road at the end of a lane, and as Henry 
was in a hurry, Katy got out of the wagon to walk 
the rest of the way, which was shady and pleasant. 
She went slowly along carrying the tarts carefully, 
and catching sometimes at the whiteweeds and snap- 
ping them off between her fingers, which she always 
thought great fun. She saw that thje front door of 
the house was wide open, so she went in that way, and 
all of a sudden she felt very much afraid and whished 
she had not come. She was only a shy little girl and 
it was hard work for her to speak and behave herself 
when she met a stranger. She knocked softly with 
the great brass knocker as she stood on the doorstep, 
but nobody took any notice of it. Aunt Phebe her- 
self was very deaf, and after waiting a minute or two 
Katy went into the parlor, for the door stood open, 
and she heard her aunt walking about up-stairs, 
stepping quickly as if she were in a great hurr}\ She 
is coming right down, thought the little girl, and she 
will see me, and seated herself on the high slippery 
sofa and sat there, feeling very uncomfortable with 
her feet a good way from the floor. She had put the 
plate of tarts on the table, and she meekly folded her 


katy’s birthday. 


hands and waited ; it was very still, only she heard 
the footsteps overhead and wondered what aunt 
Phebe could be doing. She had a mind to go up to 
find out, but she did not know whether she ought 
to do such a thing. 

There came a little gust of wind just then and 
blew down-stairs and through the house, and suddenly 
the door of the parlor began to move, and it slowly 
shut itself. Katy watched it, and wondered if it 
would bang, but it did not; and while she was thinking 
about it she heard some one come across the entry 
and turn the key and lock her, in and before she had 
time to speak, she heard the front door shut also, and 
then she called as loud as she could and flattened 
her face against the window, and she saw aunt Phebe 
put the great door key carefully in her pocket, and 
walk away down the lane. Poor Katy 1 she knocked 
on the window until she was afraid she should break 
it, and she shouted and ran to pound on the door, 
but it was all no use, for aunt Phebe was deaf as the 
deafest haddock that ever lived in the sea. * She was 
dressed in her best clothes and her cap-basket 
was on her arm ; it was plain enough that, as often 


katy’s birthday. 


happened, she was going out to spend the day. 

Poor Katy ! it makes me sad to think about her, for 
it seemed as if her heart would break. There were so 
many things she would have liked to do much better 
than to stay in that prim best room of aunt Phebe’s 
where all the chairs were too high for her to sit on 
with any comfort, and there was nobody to speak to ; 
and perhaps aunt Phebe might stay until after sup- 
per and then she would be kept there in her prison 
until after dark, which would be awful. She tried to 
push up one of the windows, but they must have been 
fastened down by some secret known to aunt Phebe 
alone, for they could not be moved, and poor Katy 
even went into the big fireplace to see if there were 
any way up the chimney ; but what comfort could a 
glimpse of the pale sky have been, for it looked fur- 
ther away than ever, and the chimney looked impos- 
sible to climb, even for a poor little chimney-sweep 
whose melancholy history our friend had read in her 
Sunday-school book a week or two before. She sat 
down to brush the ashes off the new best dress, and 
she felt very dismal, for it was such a pleasant day 
out of doors, and her birthday too! She could hear 


KATY'S BIRTHDAY. 


the bobolinks singing in the field next the house and 
the little garden looked so pleasant with the great red 
peonies just going out of bloom and scattering their 
flowers on the ground underneath until it was covered 
with shining crimson petals. It would have been 
such fun to shake the pinies, as Katy called them, 
and make them come to pieces faster. It would have 
been fun to do anything but stay there where she was. 
She looked at the pictures on the walls, and admired 
some that were worked in silk, to her heart’s content. 
There was a fine large house in one picture with some 
trees round it, and a little boy dressed in blue and 
pink, riding a white pony at the side of a rose bush 
that was covered with very big red roses. Katy 
always had liked this picture ever since she could 
remember, and after all it was a great comfort that 
she was shut up in this room instead of the sitting- 
room, which would have been very stupid. 

On a table at one side the room under the look- 
ing-glass, there was a great glass lamp with a globe 
almost as big as the moon, so our friend thought, and 
around it there were cut glass pendants that jingled 
together beautifully, while something clacked in the 


katy’s birthday. 


lamp itself whenever she went near it, sq at last she 
bethought herself to walk back and forth until she 
was tired out to hear the jingling, and this really used 
up a great deal of time. If she had only brought her 
doll it would have been a great satisfaction, but there 
was not a single thing to play with, and she did not 
dare to handle aunt Phebe’s treasures in the best 
room. 

I think that Katy will always laugh when she 
remembers how long that summ-er day seemed and 
how hard she tried to amuse herself. She picked a 
little bit of charred wood from the fireplace where 
aunt Phebe had lately had a fire to smoke out some 
swallows, and played hopscotch with it, using the 
large figures of the carpet for bounds. I am afraid 
her stout little shoes and her quick jumps and scuffles 
did not do the thin old carpet much good either, but 
she played by herself for a long time, and afterward 
she looked at every picture in the great Bible which 
aunt Phebe had shown her often before when she had 
stopped there with her father and mother on Sunday 
afternoons. 

And presently she began to grow very hungry. It 


katy’s birthday. 


seemed to her that it must be the middle of the after- 
noon ; there had never been so long a day in her life, 
but it was really only a little later than her own din- 
ner time, and she lifted the white napkin from the 
plate of tarts and wondered whether it would be right 
to eat one. She had picked the strawberries for 
them herself ; they had been very thick that year, 
and her mother had made the tarts for the surprise 
party, but there had beent hese three left, and they 
did look very good indeed. They were large tarts 
and the crust was all flaky, for Mrs. Dunley prided 
herself on her cooking, and some of the pink syrup 
of the strawberries was leaking out on the plate, and 
Katy took some of it on the end of her finger, and it 
tasted a great deal better than it had the night before ; 
but she covered the tarts again with the napkin, and 
went over to the sofa to sit down to wait, and she gave 
a heavy sigh. She could hear the large clock ticking 
out in the entry — it was half-way up the stairs on a 
landing, but she could hear it tick easily — and she 
thought how dreadful it must be to be deaf like aunt 
Phebe. She wondered if she could hear it thunder; 
and then there came an awful thought that there 


katy’s birthday. 


might be a thunder shower that afternoon, for poor 
Katy was always frightened then ; but to her relief 
there did not seem to be a cloud in the sky. 

At last she grew so hungry that she could not 
resist the tarts any longer, and she was sure that 
aunt Phebe would forgive her, so she ate one, and it 
was the best tart she had ever eaten in her life ; and 
before she could stop to think, she had eaten another, 
and she would liked to have had the other one too, 
but she did not think that would be right, and she went 
away to the other side of the room and sat down in 
the corner and cried, she was so hungry still, and 
lonely and tired, and to think that this was her birth- 
day I 

Luckily she soon went to sleep, and I do not 
know how long she was lying there on the floor with 
her head on a little bit of a cricket which aunt 
Phebe had worked many years before ; but at last 
she heard somebody knocking at the front door — 
banging away with the old knocker as if they were 
in a great hurry; and at first she was very fright- 
ened, and thought it might be robbers, and she 
would go under the sofa and hide. But she heard 


katy’s birthday. 


some voices that did not sound like robbers at 
all, and at last she dared to look out, and then 
she knocked on the window and called, “ Mother ! 
mother ! come back and let me out ! ” for she was 
just in time to see her mother go away as aunt 
Phebe had done in the morning. 

Mrs. Dunley was all dressed up, and looked 
very smiling, and some one was with her, and they 
both turned when they heard the raps on the 
window, and to Katy’s great joy they hurried 
back at the sight of her tear-stained, anxious little 
face. 

“ Aunt Phebe did not know I was here, and she 
went out to spend the day and locked me in ; ” and 
poor Katy began to cry harder than ever. 

Mother could not help laughing at first ; but she 
and the stranger nodded, and said they would let 
her out, and went away around the corner of the 
house. 

The stranger, who proved to be Katy’s uncle, 
found some way of scrambling into the house, and 
soon the key of the parlor door was turned, in 
the lock and the prisoner was let free. And her 


katy’s birthday. 


mother gave her the other tart at once, and thought 
she must have been very hungry. 

Aunt Phebe came home in a little while, just as 
they were going away, and you may be sure that she 
felt dreadfully about Katy’s misfortunes. She had 
been going to spend the day with a friend, and had 
been promised a ride with some neighbors who were 
going in the same direction, if she would reach their 
house in good season ; so she had hurried away early. 

They all stayed to tea, and Katy’s father came 
over too — as Mrs. Dunley had arranged before she 
left home — for Katy’s uncle Dan had just come 
home from a long voyage at sea, and it was an 
occasion of great rejoicing. 

Katy remembered him very well, though she was 
only six years old when he went away, and now she 
was nine that very day. Her birthday was not 
altogether forgotten, nor her solitary day, for every- 
body was very good to her. Kind aunt Phebe 
made her eat a great deal more than she really 
wanted at supper time, and kissed her and patted 
her on her shoulder a number of times, and asked 
her to come some other day to make up for that 


katy’s birthday. 


one ; and Katy said she should like to come dearly, 
and said to herself that she would not be afraid next 
time to hunt for aunt Phebe all over the house. 

Uncle Dan was the merriest and kindest-hearted of 
sailors, and he kept them laughing half the time. 
He had brought aunt Phebe a work-box from the 
East Indies, and a funny little bright shawl to wear 
over her shoulders, which she was afraid looked too 
gay for her; but uncle Dan shouted to her that 
she was growing younger every year instead of 
older, like other people. 

And when Katy reached home that night she 
found a Chinese doll and a fan with funny pictures 
on it, and some shells and beads that had come from 
an island a great way off, and a book about London, 
and last but not least a paper of candy which uncle 
Dan had brought to her. And she said that after 
all this had been the best birthday she had ever 
spent. 


THE HOPE WORKS. 


CHAPTER I. 

A unt LUCINDA was reading her Sunday Her- 
aid. She had read it pretty thoroughly, the 
outside and the inside, and the supplement on both 
sides, but she hated to leave off, because then she 
would have to get up and begin to write some letters. 
She felt rather tired because little Elsie was not very 
well, and they had been up with her in the night. 

So aunt Lucinda kept on reading her paper through 
her spectacles, and she came upon an advertisement 
something like this, down in a corner : 

“ For the little girls. Entirely fresh style dolls, ten inches 
tall, charming and life-tinted features; four by mail, several 
dresses and faces both light and dark, blue-eyed and black, for 
fifty cents ; stamps taken. 

“The Hope Works, Fair Haven, W. I.” 


THE HOPE WORKS. 


“ Seems to me,” thought aunt Lucinda, “ those 
dolls may amuse Elsie. I think I will send for them, 
as they will take stamps.” 

So she got up and went to her Davenport, and took 
some scissors and cut out the advertisement, which 
she stuck with gum upon a sheet of paper, and then 
she wrote underneath : 

“ Please send a set to Miss Elsie Robbs. Care of Mr. 
Johnathan Robbs.” 

Then she added the right address of the street and 
number, and town and State. 

After this aunt Lucinda counted out sixteen green 
three-cent stamps, and one red two-cent stamps 
which made, she was pretty sure, fifty cents’ worth, 
and laid them in the note which she folded up and 
put in an envelope, and then stuck it together and 
addressed it on the outside ; 

“the hope works.” 

Then she began to feel pretty tired, and putting 
down her pen and leaning back in her high-backed 


THE HOPE WORKS. 


chair, she took off her spectacles and dropped 
asleep! A little wind came along and blew the 
letter out of the window, for it was a warm day, one 
of the first, and the window next the desk was open. 

CHAPTER II. 

Luckily, the wind blew the letter to the very spot 
where the real Hope Works is established, but it is 
not in Fair Haven, W. I. 

It is in the county of Nobody-knows, a large, cool, 
green valley, well adapted for the works, which 
require steam power, and water power, and horse 
power, and man power, and women-and-little-children 
power, and every other kind of power that makes 
and moves. 

Quantities of people are busy all the time hurrying 
about giving orders and receiving them, and mixing 
and stirring ; for a great deal of Hope is required all 
the time, and it would be dreadful if the supply 
should give out. 

Large anchors are put up over the doors, and 
everything is painted green everywhere. In the very 


THE HOPE WORKS. 


middle is a large tank where the ingredients are put 
to be combined ; and here the workers bring mate- 
rials from all parts of the earth and air and sky, 
wherever they can find them of good quality : these 
materials are such things as prayers and tears, and 
kind little actions and great sacrifices ; they are good 
resolutions and generous lives; legends like that of 
St. Elizabeth and her roses, and stories about children 
that might, could, would, or should have been good. 
Besides this foundation there has to be essence of 
music and sunshine, and bird-chirruping and noise of 
waves; and the mixtures must be very delicately 
flavored, not to be too exciting, which would change 
it to Desire, or too fiat, when it is called “Don’t 
care,” and nobody touches it. 

There are different vats into which it runs when 
made, for after this it must be divided and the parts 
seasoned differently to make the different kinds of 
Hope that are needed. 

There must be Hope for children who are sick, that 
they will get well ; for lost children, that they will be 
found ; for naughty ones, that they will grow good ; 


THE HOPE WORKS. 


for those who are trying hard, that they will succeed . 
for those who hate arithmetic, that they will soon get 
through with the multiplication table ; that tired little 
children in town will go into the country : and _a great 
many other such hopes. Also for grown people as 
well as for children ; for those that paint badly, that 
they will either give it up or else improve ; for those 
that live near hand-organs that thejrwill go away : and 
so forth. 

When the fluid is all prepared and separated into 
the vats, it undergoes a process of evaporation and 
crystallization which reduces its bulk and turns it to 
a fine glistening powder. It is now done up in pack- 
ages at the “Disseminating Bureau,” and sent about 
as needed. 

CHAPTER III. 

Aunt Lucinda’s letter came in due time to the head 
secretary of the Hope Works, a little man dressed in 
dark green, with green spectacles and a green pen 
stuck over his ear. He read the letter and shook his 
head at first, and then spoke to his seventy-three 


THE HOPE WORKS. 


clerks who were sitting waiting to know what to write ; 

“ This is not exactly in our line, but I guess we 
can fix it.” For the Hope Works has branch con- 
nections, which enables them to fill all sorts of or- 
ders. 

CHAPTER IV. 

They were having an anxious time at aunt Lucin- 
da’s, for Elsie had grown rapidly worse, with a great 
deal of fever and restlessness. She tossed and tossed 
and tossed on her bed, and did not know what she 
was saying. The doctor had to go away, but he said 
he would come back in a few hours, and he hoped 
meanwhile that Elsie would fall asleep. 

She was lying quite still, in a sort of stupor rather 
than sleep, when the postman came with the letters. 
They were brought to aunt Lucinda, and among others 
was a flat package something like those Hovey sends 
by mail with patterns, addressed to 

“Miss Elsie Robbs, 

Care of Mr. Johnathan Robbs,” 

with the name and number of the street, etc. 


THE HOPE WORKS. 


“ I do believe it is those dolls I sent for ! ” ex- 
claimed aunt Lucinda. “ Poor child ! she is too sick 
to care for them, but I will put them beside her on 
the bed.” So she did. 

From time to time as they watched the child, her 
breathing seemed quieter and her sleep more natu- 
ral, and when the doctor came in and bent over her 
he spoke softly, with a greatly relieved expression : 

“ There is Hope ! ” 

CHAPTER V. 

When Elsie woke up her eyes had a refreshed 
look, and she spoke in her own bright little voice. 
She seemed altogether so well that they allowed 
themselves to amuse her by opening the package 
which had arrived. 

And lo and behold ! there came out of it two little 
figures, about ten inches high, but as light and del- 
icate as air ; something between a soap-bubble and 
fairies they seemed to be. One was blonde, the other 
brunette, and they were dressed alike in sparkling 
robes of greenish gauze, with quivering wings like 


THE HOPE WORKS. 


those of the dragon-flies that dart about over ponds 
in summer. They leaned upon little anchors, and 
saluted the amazed child with graceful bows and 
'wavings of their wands. Then as she clapped her 
hands with delighted laughter, they floated up as 
bubbles and balloons do, and soared through the 
room to the window ; and whether they broke like 
bubbles as they floated, or whether they vanished 
into the open sunset light, could not be known. 
But the whole room was filled with the perfume 
of violets and lilies-of-the-valley, and the fresh invig- 
orating sea-weed smell that the breeze brings up 
from the sea. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The door shut with a slight noise, and aunt Lu- 
cinda started from her nap, and her spectacles 
slipped from her hand. 

“ How is Elsie ? ” she asked of the servant who 
came in. 

“ She is- much better, marm,” she replied, “ and 
the doctor says she may have some chicken broth.” 





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HOW JACKY WENT TO 
CHUCH ON EASTER. 


' I "'HE joyous chimes from the tall gray steeple of 
Christ Church rang out : 

“ Christ our Lord is risen to-day^ 

Sons of men and angels say ; ” 

and from all the church-bells in the city pealed the 
chorus : 

“ Hallelujah ! Hallelujah ! 

It had been a long, cold winter, but this Easter 
Sunday was as sunny and warm as a day in June. 
Little Jacky Dent’s mamma was not going to church 
this morning, for Katy, the nurse, had asked permis- 
sion to attend morning mass at St. John’s, and 
mamma had said, “ Go if you want to, Katy, and I 
will take care of the babies.” 

So she took Jacky in her lap, and, while the church- 


HOW JACKY WENT TO CHURCH. 


bells were chiming, the birds singing, and the people 
going down Linden street on their way to churchy 
tolcT him the old, old, tender story of Christ’s death 
and resurrection; told him, too, how, all over the 
world, on this day, the joyous bells were pealing, 

Christ is risen ; Alleluia and in all the churches 
there were flowers and sweet music and Easter offer- 
ings to show the people’s joy. 

Just as the last bells were ringing, pretty aunt Prue, 
in a dainty dress and with her sweet face glancing 
from under the Gainsborough hat she wore, came 
over the lawn, followed by her dog, Pug, and Jacky 
ran out to meet her. 

“O Jacky,” she cried, “do keep Pug for me — 
there’s a dear — until I come from church. He has 
followed me, and if I go back with him I shall be 
too late for the service. I’ll call on my way from 
church and take you and Pug home with me for 
dinner.” 

So Jacky, who adored his pretty young auntie, 
promised to take good care of the barking little ter- 
rier and be dressed to go with aunt Prue at twelve 
o’clock. 


HOW JACKY WENT TO CHURCH. 


Mamma tied a stout cord to Pug’s jewelled collar 
— he was a great dandy, was Pug, and aunt Prue min- 
istered to his vanity — and told Jacky he might play 
with the dog in the back yard while she bathed and 
dressed baby. 

Just as baby was splashing in the bath, a mingled 
howl and scream came from the yard. Mamma 
dropped baby as if she had been a hot potato, and 
flew to the rescue. 

It had occurred to Jacky that Pug needed a bath 
too. So with infinite pains he had moved the cistern 
lid enough to admit Pug’s little body, and had 
squeezed him through the opening, all the time cling- 
ing tightly to the cord tied to Pug’s collar. 

There his dogship hung, half-way down the cistern, 
nearly choked to dfeath, until his howl and Jacky’s 
scream had brought mamma to the rescue. 

“Now, Jacky, don’t do that again,” said mamma, 

“ or you will drown poor Pug. My head aches, dear, 
and I want to sleep awhile with baby. Be good to 
Pug, and don’t go out of the yard.” 

Jacky promised to do as mamma said, and indeed 
he meant to keep his promise. He was the dearest 


HOW JACKY WENT TO CHURCH. 


little fellow in the world, with deep, clear eyes (cousin 
Tude says he has navy-hliie eyes), a sweet mouth, and 
yellow hair “banged” straight across his forehead, 
to his mamma’s delight and his papa’s disgust. 
“ Papa John,” as aunt Prue called him, thought that 
when a boy was two and a half years old, his hair ought 
to be cut short and he be put into boy’s clothes. 

After mamma went into the house, Jacky had a 
lively time with Pug, running races and playing hide- 
and-seek until they were both tired. 

Then he threw himself down under the peach tree, 
and Pug lay down by his side. It was very still. 
The church-bells had ceased ringing, even the birds 
were silent; and Jacky began to think about what 
mamma had told him that morning. 

“I believe I’ll go to church to-day,” he said to Pug 
at last. “Mamma says it’s almost like heaven in 
church, with flowers everywhere and music — and 
angels, Pug, angels, with white wings flying about,” 
he added, thoughtfully. “ Mamma did not really say 
anything about the angels, but if it’s like heaven, 
there must be angels there, of course. I ’spect my 
little brother Philip is there. Pug. He died one time. 












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HOW JACKY WENT TO CHURCH. 


and mamma says he is an angel. I believe mamma 
would be glad if I went to church and brought 
Philip home with me this Easter day. I’d say, 
‘Philip wose from the dead, mamma, and I caught 
him and brought him to you;’ and then she would 
never cry any more when she prayed beside Philip’s 
little bed every night — and, Pug, I just believe auntie 
Prue wants you finished Jacky, who knew well 

enough what a naughty thing it was to go out of the 
yard without mamma’s permission. 

But a baby conscience is not a very strict monitor, 
and, dragging reluctant Pug after him by the cord, 
Jacky started down the street. 

He knew very well where aunt Prue’s church was, 
for mamma had often pointed it out to him when 
they were out riding. Down Linden street he went, 
and, opening the park gates, passed into the pretty 
place. It was very still and pretty there, with the 
tender green grass just coming up and clothing the 
earth with a velvet robe, and the leaves unfolding. 

Jacky was hot, dusty and tired, for Pug had ob- 
jected to going to church, and the child had car- 
ried' the struggling, barking little dog in his arms 


HOW JACKY WENT TO CHURCH. 


for three squares. The sweet baby face was flushed 
with the heat and fatigue, the broad-brimmed hat 
was pushed far back over the sunny curls, and Pug 
had torn a big rent in the sailor dress in his effort 
to escape. So he climbed up on one of the green 
wooden seats, under the shadow of a lilac bush, with 
Pug in his arms, and would doubtless have fallen 
fast asleep if the choir in the church just across the 
street had not commenced to sing : 

“ Christ the Lord is risen again^ 

Christ hath broken every chain'' 

“ We must go now. Pug.” 

So the child slipped down, and, taking Pug once 
more in his arms, walked across the park to aunt 
Prue’s church. The chapel doors in the rear of the 
church were open, and in they went. 

The people were seated, and fixing themselves 
comfortably to listen to the Easter sermon. Fans 
and dresses rustled, the light came in through the 
great stained windows, and fell in flecks of red and 
purple and yellow — here on a new spring bonnet, 
there like a flame on the floor. 


HOW JACKY WENT TO CHURCH. 


Mr. Dale had just risen from his seat to announce 
the text, when a smile, then a sound which broadened 
into a laugh, broke out all over the congrega- 
tion. 

For there in the doorway of the church, facing all 
the people, stood Jacky with Pug in his arms. No 
wonder every one laughed ! Straight into the church 
stepped the little lad, and was up on the pulpit 
stairs before any one had thought to stop him. 

Yes, there was the great cool shaded church ; the 
sweet music ; flowers on the organ, the altar, and 
everywhere about the chancel, but the angels with 
their white wings — where were they? And little 
brother Philip — was he not in this heavenly place ? 

Jacky turned round on the pulpit stairs and gravely 
sought aunt Prue’s Gainsborough hat with its nod- 
ding white plumes. Yes, there she sat with a face all 
rosy red at the sight of her dusty nephew and strug- 
gling dog. 

“I’ve brought you your doggy, aunt Prue,” he said, 
in his clear, childish voice, that rang through the 
arches of the great church. “And, oh aunt Prue,” 
with a trembling lip and the big tears starting from 


HOW JACKY WENT TO CHURCH. 

the blue eyes, “ there are no angels here, and I can’t 
find brother Philip for mamma!” 

Papa John, red and wrathful, started down the 
aisle towards his young son; but kind Mr. Dale, 
leaving his pulpit, took the child by the hand, and,, 
giving him a little bunch of fragrant tea-roses 
from a vase near by, led him into the vestry. 

Jacky went back through the park in papa’s arms, 
and by the time he reached home was fast asleep, 
with the curly head nestled down 

“ Within the gracious hollow 

Which God made in every human shoulder, 

Where He meant some tired head 
For comfort should be laid.’* 


THE STORY OF MAPLE 


SUGAR. 


GREAT many years ago, long before any 



white man had set eyes or foot upon America, 
up in the north where the rock-maple grows best, 
there lived, among many other families, beside the 
great lake called Petowbowk, an Indian named 
Awahsoose, the bear, and his wife, Wonakake, the 
otter, and their children — too many for one Indian 
and his wife to give names to, so tliey were left to 
earn names for themselves. 

One of them was a tall, strapping boy who had 
seen eleven summers and twelve winters, and whom 
his parents sometimes called Wungbasahs, the wood- 
pecker, because he was always poking his nose into 
all sorts of places. 

Wungbasahs knew every woodchuck’s hole within 


THE STORY OF MAPLE SUGAR. 

a mile of the wigwam, every muskwash burrow in the 
bank of the creek, where Cheskwadadas, the king- 
fisher, reared its brood, and where the little fish were 
spawned that furnished them food; and, in fact, 
knew where almost all the birds built their nests, and 
robbed them, too, from the crow’s down to the 
wren’s — for there were no trees that he could not 
climb. 

Day after day he went prowling through the 
woods, with his lever-wood bow, letting his stone- 
tipped arrows fly at every living thing he saw, except 
one time when he came upon his father’s hairy, four- 
footed namesake, and another, when he saw the 
tawny, crouching form of Petolo, the panther, ready 
to spring upon a fawn. Though Wungbasahs was 
an expert with the bow and arrows, he was 
afraid to risk a shot with his tiny bolts at such big 
and dangerous game, and so turned on his tracks and 
sped home as noiselessly and quickly as he could. 

One March day, as he was shuffling about the 
woods on his snowshoes, looking for something to 
shoot, he saw a nuthatch creeping head first down 
the trunk of a tall, slender senomozi, a maple ; and 











/ 


THE STORY OF MAPLE SUGAR. 

as he watched it with upturned face, a drop of some- 
thing fell upon his nose. Looking overhead to see 
what it .came from — for there was no snow to drip 
from the trees — he saw a red squirrel lying along 
a small branch, as still as if he was dead, or at least 
asleep. Was he weeping for his wife that Wung- 
basahs had killed yesterday, and was it one of his 
tears that had fallen ? He would see. And so, 
kicking off his snowshoes and slipping his bow across 
his back, he climbed the tree on the side away from 
the squirrel, so silently that he was soon astride the 
branch between him and the trunk without disturb- 
ing him. 

Then he cried, “ Mekwaseese, little squirrel, what 
are you doing here ? ” 

This gave the squirrel such a start that he nearly 
tumbled off. When he gathered his wits and looked 
about him, he saw there was no escape ; for there was 
not another limb within jumping distance, and Wung- 
basahs was sitting on the butt of this, fitting an 
arrow to his bow; and below Alemose, his prick- 
eared dog, sat watching, ready to snap him up if he 
ventured a leap down on to the snow. So he spoke 


THE STORY OF MAPLE SUGAR. 


to Wungbasahs; for, though they did not speak the 
same language, they were both so wild that they 
could understand each other very well. 

“ Don’t hurt me, Wungbasahs, I am such a little 
chajD, and you are so big. And I am red enough 
to be your brother; almost as red as your father 
when he puts on his war-paint, and goes to fight the 
Iroquois.” 

“ Don’t dare to compare yourself to my father ! ” 
cried Wungbasahs, hastily drawing his arrow, and 
squinting at Mekwaseese over the point of it. 

“ I am only a little beast, but Awahsoose is a great 
warrior, and his son will be another,” said Mekwa- 
seese meekly. And Wungbasahs eased his arrow till 
the string was straight. 

But presently he drew it again and cried, making 
his piping voice as big as he could, “ You laughed 
at me yesterday when I shot at you, and the son of 
Awahsoose is not to be laughed at by squirrels.” 

But was I not the one to laugh when you missed 
me ? ” asked Mekwaseese. “ If you had hit me, you 
would have laughed, and I should never have 
laughed again.” 


THE STORY OF MAPLE SUGAR. 


“ And you never shall. See ! I can almost touch 
you with the point of my arrow, and you cannot get 
away from me.” 

“ Nay,” begged Mekwaseese, creeping a step back- 
ward, “do not shoot me, and I will tell you" a secret 
known only to the squirrels.” 

“ What is that ” the boy asked rather contemptu- 
ously; for he had little belief that a squirrel could 
tell him anything worth knowing. 

“ But you won’t shoot ? ” 

“ Let me hear your great secret, and then I will 
see.” 

“Well,” sighed Mekwaseese, “I suppose I must 
tell, whether you kill me or not. When you first 
saw me here I was sucking sweet water from this 
branch ! ” 

“ Sucking sweet water from this branch ? You 
lie, Mekwaseese. There is no sweet water in trees.” 

“ Yes,” said Mekwaseese, “ sweeter than the juice 
of the sata (blueberry), and ever and ever so much 
of it. Put your lips here where I have bitten through 
the bark, and taste for yourself. If I have lied I 
hope to be shot.” 


THE STORY OF MAPLE SUGAR. 


So Wungbasahs lay down upon the limb, and put- 
ting his mouth to the wound, got a few drops of a 
very sweet and pleasant liquid. The squirrel, having 
no great faith in Indians, big or little, took advantage 
of his enemy’s position, and jumping upon his head, 
scampered along his back, and gaining the trunk of 
the tree, got behind it in almost no time at all. The 
boy was angry enough at being played such a trick, 
and made all sorts of murderous threats against him ; 
but the squirrel asked, peeping from behind the 
trunk, “ Did you not find it as I told you ? ” 

Wungbasahs admitted that it was sweet, but so 
little of it that he could never get enough to satisfy him. 

“ But if you will promise never to shoot me, I will 
tell you how and where you can get a bucketful in 
half a day.” 

Yes, Wungbasahs would promise, if what was told 
him proved true. 

So Mekwaseese told him to take a gouge and cut 
through the bark of the trunk near the ground, and 
stick a spout of senhalon wood just below for the sap 
to run through into a pkenmojo, a birch-bark pail, 
which should be set at the end of it. 


THE STORY OF MAPLE SUGAR. 


Then Wungbasahs got down from the tree and 
went home to devise means to carry out the squirrel’s 
instructions. 

He could make a pkenmojo and spout easily 
enough, but he must borrow the gouge. He knew 
where his father kept his stone gouges and knives 
and axe, in a pesnoda, or deer-skin tool-bag, hung 
in the back side of the wigwam ; and he knew as 
well that he could not get the precious tool for the 
asking ; so he took it — the very best and sharpest 
one of the lot ; for I am sorry to say Wungbasahs was 
not quite so good as the best boys nowadays. Then 
he cut a slender stick of senhalon wood, which we 
call sumac, where it grew on a barren place by the 
lake shore and where he had often gathered its 
leaves for his father’s smoking, and whittled out a 
spout ; then peeled a sheet of bark from the mask- 
wamozi, the white birch, and made a pail ; and with 
these he set forth to the tree where he had found the 
squirrel, for that, he thought, must be better than 
any other. 

With a good deal more labor than he liked, he 
cut a furrow through the bark and into the wood, and 


THE STORY OF MAPLE SUGAR. 


below it made a slanting cut with the .gouge and 
stuck in the spout. It was a soft, half-sunny day, 
following a frosty night, and the sap came dropping 
out of the spout into the bark pail at such a lively 
rate that there was soon a good draught of it, which 
Wungbasahs swallowed with great relish. 

In an hour or so he had got his fill of drink, and 
began to wish for something to eat. A bright 
thought struck him. Only two days before, his 
father had come back from a hunt, hauling home on 
his dobogan half the carcass of a moose. Would 
not a chunk of moose-meat, seethed in a kettle of 
this sweet water, be better than cooked in any other 
way? So home he went, and added to his sins by 
purloining a bit of meat half as big as his foot, and 
one of his mother’s kokws, or earthen kettle, with a 
handful of live coals in it, and made off with his 
booty to his one-tree sap- works. 

Here he started a fire with the coals, and, by a 
cord of bark about its rim, slung the kettle over it 
filled with sap and the piece of meat. 

They say that ‘ a watched pot never boils,’ and this 
one did not till the watcher had fallen asleep with 


THE STORY OF MAPLE SUGAR. 


his back to a tree and his feet to the fire. When he 
awoke the sun was down and the snow was blue 
with twilight shadows. His first thought was for his 
cookery. There was nothing left of the fire but 
ashes and embers ; but the kokw had boiled almost 
dry, only in the bottom was a gummy mass, out of 
which rose, like the barren rock, wojahose, the 
shrunken remains of the moose-meat. Wungbasahs 
was hungry as a wolf, and, tearing it out, set his teeth 
into it without waiting for it to get cooler. His 
delight and astonishment raced with each other over 
the most luscious morsel he had ever tasted. 
Sweeter than the minute drops in the bags of the 
columbine, and a whole mouthful of it, to say noth- 
ing of what was left in the kokw ! 

He was so delighted with his discovery that he 
ran home with what was left of its results as fast as 
he could, and told the whole story from beginning to 
end. When Awahsoose and Wonakake had tasted, 
and then licked and scraped the kokw cleaner than 
it had ever been before since it was first made 
Wungbasahs was forgiven his theft and unauthorized 
borrowings, and named, with solemn rites, ‘‘ The — 


THE STORY OF MAPLE SUGAR. 


one — whom — the — squirrel — told — how — to — 
get — the — sweet — water — and — who — himself 
— found — out — how — to — make — it — better,’^ 
which in Indian is so very long a name that I have 
not paper enough left to write it on. 

And so began the making of maple sugar. 

This story was not told me by the Indians, but by 
the Blue Jay ; and so I cannot vouch for, it since it 
is said that, blue as he is, the jay is not true blue. 
But I do know that to this day, the red squir- 
rels spared by Wungbasahs suck the sap of the 
maples. 


THE ONE-MAN-BAND. 


\ T 7HOOP ! hurrah ! a band ! a band ! ” shouted 
^ Walter Gay as he dashed down the narrow 
passage known as Clam Shell Alley, to the open space 
where stood the little flag railway station. Troops 
of boys and girls were scurrying along through tlje 
fields and byways coming from all directions — from 
Dwight Row and the tenement houses by the rope- 
walk, and from the more aristocratic quarter of Seaside 
known as Broadway, all converging towards the spot 
whence proceeded the ravishing strains of martial 
music. 

Now a band was not a permanent institution at 
Seaside. Only once a year at the annual Fourth-of- 
July parade, were the children sure of hearing one. 
There was an occasional delightful surprise of the 
kind when an excursion steamer came down to Bay- 


THE ONE-MAN-BAND. 


mont five miles below, and the band played as it 
sailed by Seaside, and once within Walter’s recollec- 
tion there had been a circus parade through the little 
hamlet, when the circus band played from their lofty 
eminence in that magnificent gilt chariot we all know 
so well ; but such a pleasure was rare and not to be 
repeated often in a lifetime, and Walter did not ven- 
ture to hope that he should ever witness such glories 
again, certainly not till he was old enough to seek 
his fortune beyond the encircling hills of Seaside, in 
that unknown world whence the circus had come 
and into which it had vanished. 

As he drew near the station he stopped for a 
moment bewildered. He heard the familiar music of 
Hail^ Columbia, with an accompaniment of drums and 
cymbals, but no band was to be seen ; no uniformed 
players with instruments of flashing brass; in fact 
from where he stood he could see only a crowd. 

By a judicious use of his elbows and a wise adapt- 
ation of means to an end, he made his way quickly 
through the crowd, and this is what he saw. 

He saw a brown, black-eyed, mustachioed man, 


THE ONE-MAN-BAND. 


wearing upon his head a triple brass cap resembling 
somewhat a Chinese pagoda, each section fringed 
with tiny brass bells. 

A big drum rested upon his back, and this was sur- 
mounted by a smaller drum, while cymbals and a 
triangle were fastened to the drums. All these were 
connected by some mysterious arrangement of straps, 
so that by a movement of his left foot the player 
could cause the drums to beat, the cymbals to clash, 
the triangle to ring in unison with the accordion 
which he pla5^ed, and at the same time by a shake of 
his head he set all the sweet bells jingling in perfect 
time and tune. 

Wonderful combination ! a whole band comprised 
in one man ! and if in one man why not in one boy ? 
thought Walter ; and he knelt and examined the straps 
to see if he could solve the mystery of their arrange- 
ment. Vain attempt! while he was yet looking, 
the music ceased, another mustachioed man passed 
around a very dirty cap, the school-bell rang, and the 
crowd dispersed. 

The wonderful band has never since been seen at 


THE ONE-MAN-BAND. 


Seaside ; it disappeared as swiftly and mysteriously 
as it came, like Longfellow’s Arabs, and Walter would 
be tempted to think sometimes that it was all a 
dream and it never had been there, if his cousin 
Horace Greeley Spelman, who is a Boston reporter, 
had not told him that he had seen the very same 
man several times in Dock Square, and at the 
West End. 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG 
& BOSS. 


B OSS, boss! it is all the time boss, just as it is all 
the time egg, egg 1 I am tired I Everything comes 
from an egg, gets born an egg, and p’raps has just 
got to be another egg in the end. Papa is a boss, 
Peter was born a boss himself and always will be 
boss. I am tired of it, I say.” 

“ Harry, I say I ” called a youthful voice in the 
tone of a major-general, “did I not tell you to feed 

the dogs and to comb Pog?” 

“ A fellow can’t do everything at once,” answered 
Harry fiercely ; “ I’ll do it when I get ready.” 

“ Oh, it is too late now ; they must be washed first. 
Come along.” 

“Oh Peter,” said Esther, “don’t be so bossy, it 
spoils all the fun.” 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


“Well,” replied Peter, “he ought to have remem- 
bered what I told him. I’m not bossing. I only 
want him to pay attention. Come along, Hal. 
They’ve got to be washed to-day, for Monday and 
Tuesday the girls boss the kitchen with washing and 
ironing, and Wednesdays and Saturdays with pie and 
cake baking, and there isn’t any other day than Sun- 
day ; so it has got to be done to-day.” 

“There’s Thursday and Friday,” said Hal; “and 
I should like to know if mamma isn’t more boss 
of the week and of the tubs than you or the 
girls.” 

“Yes, I am; ” said his mother, quietly coming into 
the room. “ Stop disputing ; and do you, Harry, wash 
one dog, while Peter blacks his boots ; and then 
Peter can wash the other dog and you can brush 
both pairs of your boots. Both pairs.” 

With a grumbling, shuffling sound they disappeared 
— two boys, two dogs and one girl. Somehow Sunday 
morning in this house was very far from being peace- 
ful between nine and ten o’clock in the morning, a 
time otherwise known as “ boot and dog hour.” From 
seven to eight there was the usual amount of friction 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 

Up-stairs in rubbing black knees and dusty heads, 
which, if not accompanied by the final splash down 
the sloping side of the bath-tub, a process that 
scattered water, soap and brushes wildly about, 
would not have been tolerated by the children. This 
final plunge into the shallow depths of a bathing 
tub, and then lying there making believe dead and 
happy, atoned for all the sorrows of cleanliness. 

Breakfast was always a jolly meal, made up of 
whatever was left over from the previous day’s extra 
dinner, or of melting ice-cream on hot oatmeal, a 
most frequent dish ; for mamma never knew how to 
calculate upon just enough quarts for the evening 
company. Some pink and white and brown was 
always left, which was turned into one mould and 
covered up again with ice, so that when re-opened in 
the morning there would be a little hard centre, 
while all the rest was delightfully mushy and didn’t 
have to be stirred into a pudding before eaten, and 
wasn’t so awfully cold. After breakfast the two dogs 
had to be washed. Pillow-cases and towels from the 
soiled clothes-box were donned as aprons, and great 
sheets laid down on the floor to receive the dripping 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


four-legged creatures, who were then rolled and 
banged and shaken and sopped dry, and at the end 
the dogs looked very small, mean, and close-haired, 
and the thinnest sheets had holes made by the four 
legs, and the girls were cross that all the hot water 
was gone, and mamma was cross that she had to mend 
the sheets, and carbolic soap scented everything. 
Every Sunday it was said this should not happen 
again, and every Sunday it did. 

Then came the boot-blacking ; and the blacking 
got on to the sheets, and after rubbing the dogs hard, 
the boys were too tired to polish their boots, and the 
smaller boy looked so piteous, and his arms hung so 
limp over the moist boot (he always put too much 
water into the blacking), that the cook would softly 
steal into the laundry and brush his boots ; for he 
was very sad at having to do so much work, and cook 
was used to working, he said. And the dogs could 
not have been washed, nor the boots blacked, unless 
the older brother had done the usual amount of boss- 
ing, which made the hour hard; for both boss and 
bossee grew hot during the process. 

And this is what made Harry utter the words with 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


which this story began. His older brother had told 
him, when he was only half awake, to run down-stairs 
and feed the dogs and get that out of the way, and 
then after breakfast they could be washed — for the 
health of neither Skye terrier nor of American boy 
allows a bath to follow instantly upon a breakfast 
eaten at the rate of ten mouthfuls to a minute. Peter 
had gone up-stairs after issuing his commands, to take 
an extra nap, and Harry, indignant at being so 
promptly reminded of the day’s duties devolving 
upon a younger brother, had loitered, until he had 
done — nothing. So it was natural for the cook to 
think he had a particularly hard time of it to-day, and 
as this was his every-other Sunday to go to church, 
she concluded to help him a bit. 

Therefore Harry appeared in the library with his 
forlorn little dog and his bright black boots, and his 
little mouth telling all sorts of happy secrets, very 
much sooner than usual. But so had he a fortnight 
ago, which was also his every-other Sunday for 
church, and also the fortnight before that, and each 
time the boots had shone with such unusual brilliancy 
that mamma’s suspicions were aroused. Don’t 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


your arms ache from blacking those boots so nicely ? ’’ 
she asked. 

“ Oh, no, not much — just enough !” he replied. 

“I really don’t see,” she continued, “how you 
could have done it so well and so quickly. Suppose 
you take mine and give them a shine.” 

Harry looked puzzled as he said, “I can’t — Mary 
— Mary has gone up-stairs.” 

“ What has Mary to do with the boots ? ” asked 
the mother. 

“ Well, she has, and I can’t.” And he began to 
industriously comb his dog. The mother put a fresh 
log upon the blazing wood fire, and some ashes got 
on the boots, which Harry had placed on the hearth. 
“ O mamma,” he exclaimed,” you have soiled my 
boots ! ” 

“Yes,” said she, “and Mary has gone up-stairs; 
but I guess you can brush them yourself this time.” 

“ You did it on purpose,” he exclaimed. “ How 
did you know Mary blacked them ? ” 

She gave him no answer, only a funny little wink 
out of one corner of her eye, and off he went like a 
flash. The ashes came off quickly, he found; but 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


the lustre was hard to regain. Mary never dared 
help him again. 

In the afternoon the children always went to walk ; 
but to-day Peter declared he should go alone with 
“the firm,” and his mother consented. This firm 
was known under the name of Punkapog & Boss ; 
for Punky was the name of one dog, and Pogwas the 
other called ; the boy, of course, was Boss. On the 
way they met another “ firm ” known as “ Hounds & 
Zounds, ” for the senior partner, the boy, had a way 
of saying “Zounds,” just as other people begin every 
sentence with “ Well. ” The two firms joined com- 
pany and talked about dogs, horses, politics, and 
barked. They also spoke of the cat-show that was 
to open the next day. 

“ Zounds, ” said the elder firm, “have a ticket to the 
cat-show. My father has got something to do with it. 
They have been to him and want him to say in all the 
newspapers that that hairless cat is the genuine article. 
Father says he is going to clean shave our cat, except 
just round her eyes, where it will hurt too much — that 
cat on exhibition has hairs round her eyes if you look 
close ; and then he’s going to give her a cold bath, and 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


her skin will be all wrinkled up like my sister’s kid 
gloves when I have scented them with pennyroyal 
just to plague her ; and then he’s going to label her, 
‘Afghanistan Hairless Cat,’ and exhibit her in the 
cage next to the Genuine Hairless Cat. They’ll look 
as like as two peas, and you won’t be able to tell which 
is genuine and which is art. Here’s your ticket, 
come along in to-morrow and see the fun;” and 
whistling to his greyhound she bade good-by to the 
firm of Punkapog & Boss. 

On reaching home, Peter pinned the ticket on his 
pin-cushion, and proceeded at intervals throughout 
the evening to instruct his younger brother in jokes 
for the next day’s rehearsal. In return for his in- 
struction, he saw at breakfast a biscuit on his plate. 
Too wary to be caught, he opened it and found it 
sprinkled with black pepper. Saying nothing, he 
carefully nibbled round the edges, then turning to 
Harry, asked in generous, sudden fashion, “ Fond of 
dates? Well, then, let’s have some, I’ve got some;” 
and he thrust his hands into his pockets. 

“ Goody ! ” said the little fellow ; “ do give me one ! ” 

“ More if you like, but one at a time. What’s the 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


date of the Battle of Lexington ? Want another?” 

“That’s mean,” said Harry, while the others 
laughed at the unexpected change from peppered 
biscuit to dates. Peter started for school, with the 
promise that on his return his brother might ride his 
velocipede. Good luck favored the boys, and school 
closed two hours earlier than usual, because the 
teachers were called to a meeting of the Supervisors, 
— as Harry said, “the teacher even has a boss, it is 
all boss.” 

They started on the velocipede frolic, but all the 
big boys were out, and it seemed rather stupid fun to 
lead Harry along at a walking pace on a velocipede ; 
so Peter proposed that they should play “ station- 
master,” and that the steps of a neighboring house 
should be station. “ Only very smart boys can be 
station-masters,” declared Peter. “You must watch 
us all the time, see we don’t run into each other, hold 
up the right hand when a velocipede comes down the 
street, and the left hand when one comes up.” 

“ I know how,” said Harry, proud of being allowed 
to play station-master for big boys. Meanwhile a 
chilling east wind had sprung up, which did not dis- 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


turb the other boys, who kept warm by their swift 
exercise, but which numbed the little fellow, who sat 
there patiently holding up his hands as the express 
trains went to and fro too rapidly to hear his pleading 
words that he was tired and cold. At last a neighbor, 
who had watched these mysterious actions for some 
time from her window, remembered that it was April 
Fool’s Day, and asked Harry what he was doing. 

“ Playing station-master,” said he proudly, but with 
shivering lips. 

“What does that mean?” 

“Why, I put up and down the signals when they 
pass, just as a station-master does, while they have a 
good time riding ; only I think it is my turn now to 
ride.” 

“ So do I,” said the lady. “Do you know it is 
April Fool’s Day?” 

Harry looked at her in amazement, then calling 
out to the boys, “ Brakes down,” ran off home. “ An 
idea has seized him,” thought the lady; and the big 
boys were secretly glad that at last he had had pluck 
enough to see through their selfishness. 

On reaching home, Harry declared to the dogs of 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


the Punkapog firm that he’d play a better April Fool 
than had been played on him. But his intelligence 
had not yet attained unto the devising of original 
methods ; he could only do what he had seen done. 
So he looked round for some pieces of paper to pin 
secretly to some one’s dress at which the passers by 
should laugh and cry “April Fool.” His eyes 
lighted on the ticket pinned on to his brother’s 
cushion. 

“ That’ll do it,” he said ; “ it won’t tear like paper. 
Come along Funky, Fog. And out of the house and 
down the street they ran, nearly upsetting the firm of 
Zounds & Hounds. 

“ Something is up, ” cried the elder partner. 
“Zounds, I shall know in course of time. No use to 
hurry, or expect, in this world.” 

Harry’s speed slackened, as, out of reach of home, 
he looked round for some coat-tail or shawl on which 
to pin his treasure. At last he saw a lady slowly 
sailing down the street, wearing a large red shawl 
whose point almost touched the sidewalk. “ That’s 
the kind,” thought Harry; “her shawl is so long, 
she’ll never know if I catch hold of it. Keep still, 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


you dogs,” he exclaimed aloud ; “ no barking, or you’ll 
spoil all ! ” 

Cautiously he crept along, seized the end of the 
shawl, lifted it very gently as he walked bent double 
behind the lady, that she might not feel his approach 
by having the shawl dragged from her, as would be 
the case if he walked upright. He took out his ticket 
— but a pin, oh for a pin ! none in front of or under- 
neath his jacket. Biting the ticket with his teeth, 
and clinging on to the shawl with one hand, with the 
other he pulled a pin by main force from his collar, 
thereby tearing his shirt, and inserted the pin through 
the ticket on to the shawl. It would not hold. He 
was in despair ; but, like a wise thinker, he stood 
upright, keeping the ticket in his hand, and allowed 
the lady to walk nearly to the next block, lest she 
should begin to suspect something, before venturing 
on a second attack. The extrication of one pin had 
loosened another which was a very stout one ; so, as 
she turned the corner, he went through the same op- 
eration, and this time successfully; and then went 
home congratulating himself on having “ fixed her; ” 
little thinking how he had fixed himself and his brother. 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


That individual soon returned ; and on meeting 
Harry, told him condescendingly that as he had been 
such a careful station-master, the boys would not 
mind his having become tired, but would let him play 
it again. “ But where is my cat-show ticket ” he 
exclaimed. 

He searched everywhere. Harry had vanished. 
Peter jDpened drawers, boxes, book-cases, fishing- 
cases, museums, and turned over all the scrap-baskets 
in the house, calling on every one in an excited tone. 
No one knew about it, but every one hunted for it. 

“ Where is Harry } Why don’t he come and help ? 
The hair will have grown on that hairless cat before 
I- get there. Harry, Harry, you rascal, come here, 
quick ! double-quick ! ” 

The child came with a dog under each arm. 

“Put down those dogs, they are not yours. Help 
me hunt for my ticket.” 

“ What ticket ? ” asked the little boy. 

“ What ticket .? The one I had stuck on to my pin- 
cushion ; — you know,” exclaimed he, starting round 
and facing Harry squarely as he caught sight of his 
frightened eyes. 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


“ You mean that square little piece of green paste- 
board ? I pinned that on to a lady’s shawl in Pond 
street for an April Fool.” 

“You did, did you?” ejaculated his brother in 
wrathful tones. 

“ Well, yes ; and you need not be so cross about it. 
Can’t you get it back again ? ” asked Harry. 

“No, I can’t. Who was it? For an April Fool! 
Pretty expensive kind of a fool ! And taking other 
people’s property too ! What’s station-master to this ? ” 

“ Well,” said Harry meekly, “ I only wanted to 
do it on some on eelse as you did on me. I didn’t 
think anything about its being a ticket to anything at 
first; and when I did, after I had done it, she had 
gone out of sight, and I supposed she’d know enough 
to return it; but perhaps she couldn’t tell to whom it 
belonged. I don’t think she’d mean to keep it.” 

And here the little fellow began to cry and the 
dogs began to bark, and Zounds & Hounds came 
in, and the mother, who said she would give them 
tickets all round to go to the cat-show if they would 
never April Fool nor boss each other any more, nor 
play station-master, and would always keep dogs and 


THE FIRM OF PUNKAPOG & BOSS. 


boots clean. They said that was too much to prom- 
ise all at once, but they could think about it. 

So they went to the cat-show and saw the hairless 


cats. 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


A VOICE came out of the dusk, from the corner 
^ by the big base burning stove. “ Oh dear, I 
wish I knew how to make some money ! ’’ 

Sounds natural, doesn’t it ? Or did you never hear 
a boy wish the same thing in almost the same words ? 
Jack Brownell wanted the money as he never had 
wanted anything before in his life, and it seemed as if 
the want was eating a hole in him somewhere — what 
the poets call being devoured by desire. Never felt 
anything like it in your life, did you ? Nor you, nor 
you, who stand listening ? 

Jack wanted a knife, three-bladed, warranted real 
Wostenholme ; one that would keep an edge when 
you had ground it and finished it on the oil- 
stone, and wouldn’t force you to be whetting it up 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


and going over to Andrew Pate’s grindstone every 
other day of your life ; and he wanted subscription to a 
juvenile magazine — no names mentioned — and a pair 
of water-proof boots that he could walk right through 
a mudpuddle with, and never interrupt his ideas and 
put him out by having to walk round it. Boots above 
his knees, with cavalry tops, so he could wade from 
home to the post-office when the snow broke up in 
floods. Boots you could hunt in all day in the 
marshes and never wet the toes of your socks. Yes, 
and he wanted — deep down in his soul he coveted — 
a shot-gun, Sherman’s make, silver mounted, with a 
hunting-bag and ammunition — much as a poun^d of 
powder — and three boxes of caps, and a bag of shot. 
Then what good times down the creek Saturdays 
shooting at a mark, or peppering an unlucky rabbit 
if it ran right in the way of the bullet! Jack rolled 
over and groaned at thought of the gun; and to 
think too, that he had only sixty-nine cents toward 
this vision of happiness, and not the least idea how 
to make any more. Tim Lewis had the job of sweep- 
ing the schoolroom and clearing the snow off the 
steps that winter, and he was to get three dollars for 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


it ; and Gobright had fifty cents a week for getting 
up early and leaving the hot buckwheat cakes at 
breakfast to build a fire in the Bridge School ; but 
there wasn’t any chance for Jack. He wished he 
could happen on some buried treasure, or find some 
Indian relics and sell them. Levi Hayward found an 
Indian arrowhead and stone pipe when he was plow- 
ing, and the professor gave him three dollars for 
them for the college cabinet. , Jack gave another 
sniff and fling at thought of it. 

■‘Jack, what ails you ? ” asked his mother from her 
mending, noticing the boy’s trouble at last. 

Jack groaned, turning over on his back and clasp- 
ing his hands like a crusader on a tomb. “ I wish 
there was money on every bush. I wish I could go 
somewhere and steal a whole lot. Yes, I do. When 
I went for the carpet binding down to the store, they 
were counting over the cash, and piles of it lay on 
the desk, and it looked so good I just hated the 
sight of it because I couldn’t have any. I had to 
just^tart and run all the way home. Seemed as if 
I’d have to steal in a little more.” 

“Don’t talk that way. Jack,” said his mother 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


gently, knowing how the sight of such things strikes 
to a boy’s heart sometimes, and yet glad, because 
temptation run away from is not likely to ever get 
hold of him. 

“ If you want some money, why don’t you go to 
work and make some ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, why don’t I ? ” in a tone of injury ; “ make 
it doin’ sums, or pull it out the fire,” with fine scorn. 
“ How’d /make it } ” 

“ You might set up in business,” said his mother 
meekly. 

Ho ! yes, he’d set up in business — set up with a 
jayhawk and a ground squirr’l for partners. H’mph ! 
Sniff ! 

“ You might take a partner with money,” suggested 
his mother again, quietly. “Belmont, or Astor, or 
Vanderbilt, or Charley Higgins, the town skinflint 
and money-lender.” He wasn’t particular either, 
any of ’em ! ’mph ! sniff. Two sniffs. 

If I could find a boy willing to work, and get up 
mornings and step around spry and smart, and 
that wouldn’t let the hens run away with a good thing 
when he had it in his teeth, I might take him 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


for a partner,” said the ' mother, taking in another 
yard or two of red yarn in her needle. Boys’ heels 
do eat up yarn dreadfully. “Just take this sock, 
Johnny, and ravel out the top while I darn the other, 
and I’ll tell you about a boy I knew.” 

So Jack sat up and pushed the desperate hair out 
of his face, and fell to work, for when his mother 
said “ I’ll tell you something,” it grew interesting, 
and he forgot to growl and object that it was girls’ 
work to wind yarn, as some boys do. I don’t mean 
these boys who read this story, but some other boys. 
Probably you never heard one say so. While the old 
sock was deftly raveled and wound, Mrs. Brownell 
told about Tom Getchell. 

“ When I was in the country one summer while 
you were a baby, there used to come around twice a 
week, a lame boy with a little cart of notions. He 
had confectionery such as everybody loves — fig paste 
and chocolate drops, old-fashioned cream candy that 
melts in the mouth, molasses candy, big Salem Gib- 
raltars, and real jujube paste, which you don’t find 
nowadays, all fresh and pure and well-made. You 
can imagine that was the thing to draw the pennies 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


right out of schoolchildren’s pockets, and older per- 
sons liked the taste of Tom Getchell’s nice candies. 
Beside he had such an assortment as you find at the 
confectionery counter of a depot stand — fresh figs in 
the season, oranges and lemons, popcorn-balls in 
papers, maple sugar and flagroot, licorice sticks, and 
in one small box some writing-paper, pens and pen- 
cils, just to accommodate people who wanted a sheet 
of paper once or twice a year, when they had to 
answer a letter. We were half a mile from the stores, 
and there were but two shops in the little country 
place anyhow, and it was a welcome sight to spy 
Tom’s cart toiling up the hill with its load of sweet 
and fresh juicy oranges. He was sure to leave 
something at every house on the way, for the men 
and girls in the shoe factory saved their lunch money 
to buy of him, and the Irish women spared a cent to 
buy a pink popcorn-ball for the babies, and Miss 
Lucinda Foster across the road liked to have a few 
Gibraltars to give the children when they ran in to 
see her, and her big brother William liked to find a 
ripe fig or a burnt almond in the drawer when he 
looked for his spectacles. You used to know Tom, 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


and begin to dance and shout as soon as you saw the 
cart, and cry if it did not hurry round soon enough 
to suit your lordship; and you started more than 
once to run away and follow the wonderful load all 
over the world. Tom was an orphan, and had taken 
up the business of earning his own living two years 
before. He had travelled the road twice a week all 
the pleasant weather, and people who knew him said 
he had earned his clothes and had three hundred 
dollars put away in bank.” 

“ Three hundred dollars,” said Jack, his eyes 
widening ; “ don’t I wish I had it ! ” 

“ Suppose you work for it then,” said his mother. 
“Now I will give you fifty cents to start with if you 
choose to stock a basket and go round Saturday and 
Wednesday afternoons, and see what you can do 
about selling things. You and I will be partners ; or, 
I will be a silent partner, with my money in the busi- 
ness but no share in the active management. You 
will be the head of the firm and I’ll be the ‘ Co.’ ” 
The head of the firm didn’t act as if he meant to 
stand on his dignity very much, for he was dancing 
ap Incjian war dance round the sitting-room, ending 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


by Standing on his hands with his feet in the air. 
The “ Co.” threaded her needle with more red yarn, 
and smiled at the performance. 

“Three hundred dollars saved up,” Jack went on, 
counting up his future gains. “ I can have a bicycle, 
and a new suit and a camera, a magic lantern and 
‘ The Boys’ Own Wonderful,’ and a gun and a pair of 
carrier pigeons, and a writing-desk and lots of pink 
paper with silver letters, and a bottle of Florida 
water that smells sweet to put on my hair, and a 
game of authors and a three-pound box of candy, and 
— why, mother, I can have every single thing in the 
world I want!” and Jack stood on his hands again 
by way of expressing his feelings. 

“ You have to earn your money first,” his mother 
said ; “ and let me tell you, not one cent is to be spent 
till you have gained the dollar of your money and 
mine you take for capital. I can’t afford to let you 
lose my money or your own. You will have to make 
that dollar to pay yourself back, and another dollar to 
buy more things, before you touch a penny for any- 
thing else.' Bring me the little old grocery book and 
the pencil, and let us begin things in shape.” So Jack 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


brought the old passbook which had several blank 
leaves left, and Mrs. Brownell had him write down in 
his best hand the memorandum of the agreement. 

“John Brownell and Mary Brownell, partners, Feb. 6th, 1880. 
Each put in fifty cents’ share in basket business. $1.00. No 
money to be taken out by either partner till the capital is 
doubled. Then share and share alike.” 

Jack liked the sound of the last sentence, which he 
had heard in a contract for the letting of his father’s 
forty-acre lot. He would have liked to start out sell- 
ing then and there, but he had no stock, and, he 
reflected, not even a go-cart. .“Where shall I get a 
wagon,” he asked' disconsolately. 

“Your wagon will have to be a basket. Jack,” his 
mother said, “and you needn’t worry about that till 
you have the things to put in it. Jack, I declare, it 
isn’t fair. I shall have to furnish half the capital and 
all the experience for this firm, right along.” 

“Why isn’t it fair? ” cried Jack, flushing. 

“ Why, the rule is in partnership that one man finds 
the money and the other the experience, and in two 
years the first one has- the experience and the other 
man has the money. I shall want good interest if 
I’m to find money and experience too.” 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


“Shall we have Gibraltars ?” Jack asked anxiously. 

“I suppose so, for it wouldn’t be a boy’s basket 
without. I think, Jack, I’ll write to your aunt Frances 
in the city, and ask her to buy the things for us. A 
dollar will go so much farther there than here.” 

Jack got up, went to the secretary, and brought 
paper, pen and ink to his mother beseechingly. “ Now 
do write at once,” he said, “ because you know I am 
no good at waiting, and I feel as if I should never 
last anyhow till that basket is full and walking off 
with me behind it.” 

So his mother laughed and wrote the letter to 
aunt Frances in Boston, and the next week the post- 
master handed Jack a box with ten cents’ postage to 
pay, which took the last of his sixty-nine cents, for he 
spent eight cents for candy and one cent for chewing- 
gum to support nature under the stress of waiting, 
on the strength of the fortune he was going to make. 
What is nine cents to a man who has three hundred dol- 
lars in bank in the future ? for Jack had counted that 
money and laid it out so many times he felt as if he 
must certainly have made it twice over. 

That dreadful mother of his would not let him open 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


the box till after school, and he had split the wood 
and fed the hens and nailed up the slats of the fence, 
for she knew that hens and wood-house would have 
no more of Jack after that wonderful box was open. 
Then with the room snug and warm, curtains down 
and the table clear, he might bring out the box. 
Aunt Frances had rather enjoyed making the most of 
the Brownells’ dollar, and had quite entered into the 
spirit of the business. First under the tissue paper 
came half a dozen confectionery hearts, three white 
and three pink, melting, sugary things, not burning 
with peppermint, or bitter with lemon, but with no 
flavor save that of their own sweetness. I used to 
think such hearts were the dearest things in the 
world, and children like them just as well now, I 
fancy. Then came a pound of mixed candies, which 
took more of Jack’s money, and was all of large fig- 
ures which would sell at a cent apiece. Next some 
tangerine oranges of delicious flavor, which as rarities 
were to be marked five cents each. Then some cards 
of small pearl buttons, and hooks and eyes, which 
Jack sniffed at. That boy had a variety of sniffs, 
and could find one to suit almost any occasion ; . and 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


as he seemed to think that creation could have been 
improved if he had put a hand to it, you can imagine 
he kept them all in use. Then came one of these 
queer wire things you have seen to scour kettles with- 
out scraping and trouble ; then a paper of very long 
needles, and extra large tape needles, and some rolls 
of yellow hair-pins which looked like gold, for putting 
up fair hair without showing in it as black ones do, 
and some silver pins which would look pretty in dark 
hair, some soft pins for hair crimping, at two cents a 
pair, and lastly a funny little cap of soft russet 
leather, with an elastic strap to it. Then it was Mrs. 
Brownell’s turn to look curious, for she had never 
seen anything of the kind before. “ It must be the 
‘little old man dressed all in leather’ has lost his 
nightcap,” said Jack. 

“Aunt Frances writes that these sheep-skin things 
are a new invention called stocking protectors, to 
slip on boys’ heels to keep the sock from wearing. 
She says you can use this for a sample in taking or- 
ders, and she will send them as fast as you want, and 
that mothers are likely to want a good many of them.” 

Jack didn’t more than half like the idea of going 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


round with such a pack of girl’s things, as he scorn- 
fully said, but the mother overruled, and he was 
started off the next Saturday afternoon with directions 
to begin work the other side of the town. He went 
across the river to the Mayo house, where there were 
three big girls with snapping black eyes and cardinal 
ribbons, and old lady Mayo opened the door at 
Jack’s knock. “D-d- do you want to buy anything 
to-day.? ” Jack asked in an agony of bashfulness. 

“I don’t know as I do,” said the old lady very 
deliberately. “ You look like a young fellow to be in 
business ; what you got ? ” 

“Want any hooks and eyes, buttons, milliners’ 
needles?” Jack stammered, trying to recollect what 
his mother had told him to say. 

“No, I don’t want any of them. Got any trousis 
buttons ? ” 

Not one had Jack, of brass or black or tin. He 
felt mortified away down in the depths of his soul to 
think he should have forgotten such an essential 
thing as trousers buttons. The old lady was going to 
shut the door on a very mortified, wretched boy, when 
Clarinda, the youngest, came running down-stairs. 




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THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


“Who is it, ma ? ” she said, and, “Oh, what you 
got ? ” catching sight of the basket. “ Jack Brownell’s 
gone into business, ma. Girls, come down ! ” 

And she wanted to know if he had any cardinal 
ribbon or elastic braid, or any worsted needles, for 
she didn’t want to go across the river to the store for 
one that afternoon. And the other girls' came down, 
and Jack had to show everything to each one, and 
there was looking and comparing, and Amanda 
wanted to know if he had any watch-cords, or small 
spools of embroidery silk, or any darning cotton, 
which of course he hadn’t. And they bought a pair 
of crimping pins, and two sugar hearts, and Mrs. Mayo 
bought a dozen of pearl buttons because they were so 
cheap. 

Next place the baby had the measles, and the 
mother wouldn’t let Jack in the house. Next was an 
old man reading a paper and lonesome. He invited 
Jack in, asked him fifty questions about himself and 
his parents, poked in his basket, bought a stick of 
barley candy, and gave Jack a red apple. Next 
place Jack sold more candy and two milliners’ 
needles, and he began to look with more respect on 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


his feminine goods when he found how well they 
sold. Next place the woman was mending stockings, 
with a big basketful beside her. “Well, now,” she 
said, when she saw the “ protectors,” “ ’pears to me 
I’d ought to have a pair o’ them things right away. 
Jest the thing for savin’ ‘his’ socks, ain’t they?” 
And she made Jack promise to bring her the sample 
pair if his mother would let him, that very night. 
“ She wasn’t going to mend any more socks if that 
little invention was going to help it.” 

Then he met a party of the boys on the bridge, 
and this he had been dreading all the afternoon, for 
he knew they would want him to treat, and worry 
him if he did not. His mother had told him what to 
do and say, and he faced them bravely. 

“ He-up,” sang out one who peeped into the basket 
as he went by. “Jack, can’t you give us a treat? 
Here, boys, make him stand treat,” and “ treat,” 
“ treat,” rang on all sides. 

“ I’ll treat, boys, when I’ve got my business started. 
If you want anything in my line,. you’ll get more for 
your money here than you would at the bank. Ever 
see any Gibraltars that size, Joe Emory?” 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


As the candies were very large and of good flavor, 
the joke took, and the boys bought a couple of 
cents’ worth, all the money they had in the 
crowd. Two or three asked Jack to trust them for 
more. 

“ Strictly cash business, boys, and I’ve got to keep 
my credit good. Can’t have any notes out, or 
accounts running. When I can see my way ahead 
better. I’ll talk about credit. ” And then he was off 
as quickly as he knew how to go without run- 
ning. 

He got fairly through his afternoon business, took 
three orders for the heel protectors, which mothers 
seemed to think were just what they wanted to keep 
the children’s stockings from wearing out. Carrie 
Fox asked him if he couldn’t bring her some crewels 
to match samples which she gave him, and Jack 
remembered to tell his mother everything which peo- 
ple wanted that he hadn’t got. She wrote down a 
list of them to help in making* the next order. A 
week from that day Jack had only a quarter of a pound 
of candy left, and the list of things to be ordered and 
the account in the little old grocery book read thus : 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


Sold. Almonds, candied walnuts, etc ... $ .30 

Sugar hearts .06 

Blonde hair-pins, at loc. a paper ... .30 

Silver hair-pins, at loc. a paper ... .20 

4 dozen pearl buttons, at loc ... .40 

5 tape needles at 5c .25 

6 papers hooks and eyes at 5c . . . .30 

I wire-pot cleaner .15 

I stocking saver .25 


$2.41 


Things to be ordered: Trousers buttons, brass, 
silvered, black, 2 sizes ; coarse red machine silk for 
stitching ; linen bobbinet braid ; watch-cords ; mend- 
ing cotton; elastic braid; Java canvas, red and 
blue ; crochet needles, extra polished ; peacocks’ 
feathers ; orange cream drops ; rush baskets ; Japan- 
ese fans ; Easter cards ; Princeton basket. 

Aunt Frances had enough to do to fill that order, 
you may be sure, but Jack and his mother put the 
$2.41 into the business, and the next month a crisp 
new $10 bill went into the savings bank, beside the 
$5 for fresh stock. 

Jack has bought a new basket, and begins to think 
he doesn’t care so much for the bicycle, and feels as 
if he could exist without the camera. The silver- 
mounted shot-gun has lost its charms beside Ben 


THE BASKET BUSINESS. 


Phinney’s plain rifle which shoots better, and which 
is offered for sale at $30, But Jack sent to Mr. Vick 
privately for a new selection of flower seeds to sur- 
prise his mother, and has decided that the sitting- 
room wants a new carpet, and his books need a new 
walnut case. He intends to send next month for a 
color box and a set of carving tools, while already in 
the right hand trousers pocket rests that beautiful 
Wostenholme knife that is the admiration of all the 
High School boys. 

Jack’s mother thinks the best of the business is 
that he is so busy and has so much to think of, he 
has forgotten to sniff, and I sometimes get the 
impression that he is entirely willing the responsibil- 
ity of managing the whole world should rest some- 
where else than upon his shoulders. He generally 
finds the basket and Jack Brownell’s affairs quite 
enough for him to take care of. 


THE QUEERCLOVER CHRON- 
ICLES. 


I. MISS marrowphat’s maltee. 

HOMAS ALSOP, Esq., a small but not unim- 



jL portant citizen of Queerclover, was walking 
down the main street of the village with his hands in 
his pockets and bitterness in his heart. It was May, 
the month of circuses. “ The Greatest Combination 
Ever on Exhibition in Either Hemisphere ” was an- 
nounced to appear in Queerclover the following week. 
And Thomas Alsop’s father, having been this morn- 
ing for the first time approached upon the subject, 
had declined to bestow upon his son the advertised 
price of admission. Just at the corner of the Green, 
citizen Tommy fell in with young Prettyman, a New 
York boy who, with his mother, was visiting in Queer- 


clover. 


The Queerdover Chro7tides, 


“Well?” demanded young Prettyman. “What 
did he say ? ” 

Said ’twa’n’t no place for boys,” responded 
Tommy, disgustedly. 

“Just what Judy said,” observed young Prettyman. 
By “Judy” he meant his mother. For some incon- 
ceivable reason (possibly because it was disrespectful 
and he knew it plagued her) he always called his 
mother Judy. 

“ Notwithstanding which ” — the speaker continued 
with great cheerfulness — “ I’m going ! ” 

“ Where’ll you get the money ? ” asked Tommy. 

“ Don’t know. I’ll ge/ it somehow, though ! Al- 
ways do.” 

The conversation reached this point just as they 
were passing a pretty white cottage with flowers and 
shrubbery all about it, and a piazza facing the green. 
On this piazza, as they looked in through the open 
gateway, a large cat could be seen lying on the mat 
in the sun. She was of the kind generally known as 
^ maltese,” and was particularly noticeable now be- 
cause of a green vizor or shade which was fastened 
over one of her eyes, evidently for the purpose of 
protecting it from the light. 

“ What’s that ? ” exclaimed young Prettyman. 


The Queerclover Chrofiicles, 

“ That’s Miss Marrowphat’s maltee,” said Tommy. 

“ Haven’t you heard about her 1 ” 

“ What’s that she’s got on ? ” asked the other halt- 
ing and regarding the animal with interest. “ What’s 
the matter with her anyway ” 

“ She pretty near put her eye out fighting, the other 
night,” explained Tommy. Miss Marrowphat had 
an eye-doctor out from Boston, an’ he fixed it, an’ 
now she has to wear a shade. They thought first she’d 
have to have a glass eye.” 

Young Prettyman laughed outright. 

“ She must think a good deal of her cat,” said he. 

^ I guess she does ? ” responded Tommy, with 
warmth. “ She thinks more of it than she does of 
her own children — if she had any. She’s brung it 
up just like other folks do babies. She has a girl to 
take care of it, an’ a carriage for it to ride in — an’ 
it always sets up to the table with her an’ has a high 
chair an’ a napkin ring an’ a silver spoon of its own. 
An’ she has a gold collar for it, only she don’t let her 
wear it, for fear it’ll get stolen. An’ she has a little 
bedroom for it openin’ right out o’ her’s — an’ a little 
bed in it an’ a muskeeter bar an’ — an’ lots o’ things. 
An’ whenever it’s sick she always sends right off for 
the doctor. An’ since this last accident she’s got its 


The Queer clover Chronicles, 

life insured for five thousand dollars in the Catskill 
Mutual.” 

“Catskill Grandmother exclaimed young Pretty- 
man. “ I don’t believe it.” 

“ That’s what my father says, an’ he’s a lawyer,” 
declared Tommy 

“ Hist ! ” whispered his companion. “There she is 
now.” 

They paused near the end of the fence, and look- 
ing in through the hedge, saw Miss Marrowphat her- 
self come out of the house and speak to the cat. 

“Why, dear,” they heard her say, “ I’m afraid this 
hot sun will give you another sick headache. And 
this light is altogether too strong for your poor eye.” 

And then they saw her stoop and take up the mal- 
tee, and disappear with it inside the door. 

“ She does think a good deal of it,” remarked 
young Prettyman, after a moment of thoughtful si- 
lence. 

“ I told you she did,” said Tommy. 

“ I say, Alsop,” went on the other abruptly. “ Do 
you really want to go to the circus ? ” 

Tommy grew sober in an instant. He evidently 
did really want to go to the circus, though he made 
no reply in words. 

“ Well, then,” cried his friend, “ I know how we 


The Qiicerclover Chronicles. 

can get the money just as easy as falling out of a 
cherry tree.” 

“ How ? ” asked Tommy. 

“ D’you ever hear of Charlie Ross ? ” 

Tommy shook his head. 

“ There ain’t no such boy in Queerclover,” said 
he. 

“ Humph ! ” uttered young Prettyman. “ He may 
be for all you know. He’s never been found any- 
where else. But I’ll tell you how we can get the 
money, if you will help.” 

“ How ? ” again inquired Tommy. 

Young Prettyman looked cautiously around. They 
were some little way past the cottage now, and Miss 
Marrowphat was nowhere in sight. He got hold of 
Tommy’s arm and drew him nearer. 

“ I’m going to try my hand at kidnapping ! ” mur- 
mured he. 

“ What ? ” asked Tommy, not comprehending at 
all. 

Young Prettyman pulled him nearer still and put 
his lips close to Tommy’s ear : 

“ I '‘in going to kidnap Miss Marrowphaf s malice T 
he said in a loud whisper. 

By nine o’clock the next morning it was known all 
over Queerclover that Miss Marrowphat’s maltee was 


The, Queerdover Chronides, 

missing. Miss Felicia Funnyfeather, Miss Marrow- 
phat’s nearest neighbor and dearest friend was, 
strangely enough, one of the last to hear of it, and 
she at once flung her waterproof about her head and 
shoulders and hastened over to learn the particulars 
and to condole with her friend. 

Miss Marrowphat received her at the door with red 
eyes. 

In many words, interspersed with some sobs, she 
told her friend the sad story. Angie, the name Miss 
Marrowphat’s xMaltee usually went by, had, as usual, 
been permitted to go out for a few moments, about 
nine o’clock the previous evening to get a little fresh 
air. At half-past nine Maria had gone to 'the door 
and called her but she had made no response. At 
ten Miss Marrowphat herself had stepped out on the 
piazza, and for a long while, and in the most gentle 
and persuasive accents, besought her to return to the 
house. But still there was no sign of the missing one, 
and Miss Marrowphat had finally gone back, but re- 
maining up all night had from time to time gone to 
the door and called the cat. This morning a thorough 
search had been made all about, yet no trace of the 
lost one discovered. 

“ And I shall never, never see her any more,” said 
Miss Marrowphat, breaking down entirely. 


The Queerdover Chronides. 

She has only wandered off somewhere,” jaid her 
friend. “ If I were you, I would advertise.” 

And so saying Miss Funnyfeather, who was dread- 
fully energetic and practical and cheerful on all occa- 
sions, sat down then and there and wrote out an ad- 
vertisement which was at once taken down to the 
printing office and printed. 

That afternoon at five Tommy Alsop, lying at full 
length on the grass down in the back garden under 
the lilac bush, suddenly heard a step behind him. 
He started up with a little shriek. 

“ What’s the matter with you ? ” said young Pretty- 
man. “ You’re white as a sheet.” 

“ Nothing,” answered Tommy, looking relieved. “ I 
really thought at first you were the sheriff sure.” 

“ I do believe you’re scared,” said young Pretty- 
man. “ Have you seen the reward ? ” 

And then, as Tommy did not seem to understand 
what was meant, the other went on to tell him that 
there was a big handbill posted on the band-stand 
in the middle of the Green announcing that a reward 
of ten dollars would be paid to anyone who would 
give information leading to the recover)^ dead or 
alive, of Miss Marrowphat’s maltee. 

Tommy turned a little pale as he listened, but 
presently a thought struck him. 


The Queerclover Chronicles. 


“ Then why can’t we return her and get the re- 
ward ? ” suggested he. 

“ No sir !"' uttered his chief, emphatically. “ You 
don’t catch 7ne that way. I hid my father’s seal-skin 
gloves once, and when he said he’d give anybody half 
a dollar to find ’em and I went and got ’em, instead 
of the half dollar he gave me a good lickin’ for it.” 
And young Prettyman shook his head very positively, 
as he repeated. No sir. You don’t catch me 
that way ! ” 

“ But I’ll tell you what we will do,” this astute 
young person went on. “You know how to write, 
don’t you > ” 

Yes, Tommy, could write. At least he could print. 
He could make a better capital B than any other fel- 
low in the school. 

“Well,” said young Prettyman, “you go get a 
sheet of paper, will you I want you to write a 
letter.” 

So Tommy went into the house for the paper ; and 
then, with the bench in the summer-house for a desk, 
and at Master Prettyman’s dictation, with infinite 
pains he wrote out the following letter. It is to be re- 
gretted the chirography as well as the spelling cannot 
be reproduced here : 


The Quecrclover Chronicles. 

“MiS MaReRfat yoR caT TiS aLivE and WeL and yOU 
caN HAV iT foR 25 DoLARS Be aT THe BaNStaND To 
MoRReR NiTe aT 9 oKLoK IF YOU Do NOT hER IleD 
WiL Bee cUT Of THeR NeX Day. 

YoRS AffeCKSNTLy 

RoBBURS. 

P. S. Bee SuRe You CoM ALoNe and If you Say A SiN- 
GLe WoRD IT WiL Bee CuT Of NoW. • 

This document the reader, doubtless, will succeed 
in deciphering. The intention of him who dictated 
it was that Miss Marrowphat should come to the 
Band-stand on the Green, all by herself, at nine 
o’clock the following evening, bringing with her the 
sum of twenty-five dollars, in exchange for which 
she was to receive back her darling cat. And it 
must be confessed that young Prettyman had shown 
no little ingenuity, and cunning, so far in his scheme ; 
and it was altogether likely that Miss Marrowphat, 
her anxiety for the safety of the maltee outweighing 
all other sentiments in her breast, would unhesitat- 
ingly comply with his conditions. 

The letter, duly posted, reached Miss Marrowphat 
that evening ; and her friend. Miss Funnyfeather, 
who was with her, saw an expression of joy gradually 
breaking over her face. Miss Marrowphat had 
barely gotten as far as the postscript, when she 
jumped up from her chair, and began waving the 


The Qiieerclover Chronicles. 

paper above her head, in the most extravagant man- 
ner possible. 

“ Found ! Found ! ” she cried, and then, dropping 
the letter on the floor, she sat down again, quite 
overcome with joy. 

Miss Felicia picked up the paper and read it over 
for herself. When she had finished it, she asked 
Miss Marrowphat what she was going to do about it. 

“ Do about it ? ’’ exclaimed the latter. “ What 
should I do about it ? I shall do as the letter says. 
I would rather give twenty-five hundred dollars, than 
that my pet should have her beautiful head cut off ! ” 
Humph ! ” remarked Miss Felicia. But she said 
nothing more. She knew her friend too well to 
attempt to change her purpose in a matter so near 
her heart as this. Miss Felicia had a notion of her 
own, however, as w^e shall presently see. 

At half past eight o’clock the next evening, it was 
raining a little, and the night was dark as a pocket. 

“ So much the better,” remarked young Prettyman, 
as he and Tommy Alsop climbed over the back- 
garden fence. “ Nobody’ll see us.” 

And, indeed, if an} body had seen them they would 
have been unusually sharp-eyed, to have recognized 
them. Young Prettyman had on four coats, a heavy 
pair of boots and a tall stove-pipe hat, and his face 


The Queerdover Chronides, 


was adorned with the fiercest possible moustache and 
whiskers of burnt-cork ; while Tommy had dressed 
himself in his father’s winter ulster, and put on a fur 
cap and muffler that entirely concealed his head and 
face, and made him look twice as big as he was. 
Save that they were a little deficient in point of stat- 
ure, they looked, for all the world, like a pair of des- 
perate outlaws, taken directly from the first-page 
illustration of a New York story-paper. 

Young Prettyman slung his club over his shoulder 
and strode off boldly into the night, while his less 
reckless comrade shifted the covered basket from his 
right hand to his left and reluctantly trotted after. 

Arrived at the Green, the chief conspirator led the 
way directly toward where the band-stand might be 
supposed to be. It was very dark and they could 
scarcely see each other. Looking across toward Miss 
Marrowphat’s cottage, they perceived a light in the 
front room as usual. All at once, however, the tall 
outline of the band-stand appeared before them, a 
large circular platform some eight feet from the 
ground, with a railing around it and supported by a 
single pillar in the centre. In years past there 
had been a set of steps leading up to a trap-door in 
the platform, but of late, the band-stand not having 


The Queerdover Chrottides. 

been used for a long while, these had been taken 
away. 

Young Prettyman posted Tommy out in the dark- 
ness, some twenty feet from the band-stand. 

There ! ” said he. “ You are to stay here with the 
basket, and not make a single sign or sound until I 
whistle.’’ 

All right,” assented Tommy, with a slight quaver 
in his voice. 

Then young Prettyman went back to the band- 
stand ; and almost immediately thereafter. Miss 
Marrowphat’s front door was seen to open and a 
female figure came out, raised an umbrella and then 
closed the door again. Tommy’s heart beat so 
loudly he was afraid it would be heard all over the 
village j but his companion paced up and down in 
the fain, quite undaun ted, impatiently stroking his 
burnt-cork moustache, and waiting for Miss Marrow- 
phat to appear. Then suddenly. Tommy, listening 
with all his ears, heard voices and knew that the 
lady had arrived. “ O, Sir ! ” were the first words 
that Tommy could catch distinctly, where is my 
darling Cat ? O, give her back to me at once ! ” 

“ Have you brought the money ? ” demanded 
young Prettyman, in a voice as deep and gruff as he 
could possibly assume. 


The Queerclover Chronicles, 


“ Yes, I have it,” was the eager answer. “ But 
where is my Cat 'I O, where is she ? ” 

Young Prettyman put his first and fourth finger 
between his lips and gave a low, shrill whistle, at 
which Tommy picked up his basket and slowly came 
forward. 

“ She is here — in this basket,” said young Pretty- 
man, taking the basket. “ Now give us the money 
— quick ! ” 

And at that instant, as if to confirm his words 
and probably instinctively aware of her mistress’s 
presence, Angy gave vent to a long, heart-rending 
cry which Miss Marrowphat recognized at once. 
With trembling hands the lady began feeling in her 
pocket for her purse, and, drawing it forth, was 
about to hand young Prettyman a roll of bills, when 
suddenly a muffled sound was heard directly over- 
head, and then, all in an instant, our two young ad- 
venturers became aware that a via7j was standing 
beside them and that a heavy hand had been laid 
upon the shoulder of each. 

“ Needn’t hurry to come down, Tom,” the well 
known voice of Mr. Roper, the Town Constable, was 
heard to say, as though speaking to some one above. 
“ It’s nothin’ but a couple of boys, I guess.” And 
then, addressing the boys themselves, he went on, 











%‘xiy^z:,^*iijii. 


AN UNLOOKED-FOR OCCURRENCE 


The Qiiee7-dove7‘ C/i7V7iicles. 


“ Wal, young gen’lman, this here’s a purty how’d ye 
do ! Yer’d better keep yer money, Miss Marrow- 
phat — an’ here’s yer cat. What’s your name, young- 
ster ” and he turned sharply on young Prettyman. 
_ “ You stoop down here and I’ll tell you,” said the 
latter. “ I don’t care to have everybody know.” 

So the unsuspecting constable_, little dreaming with 
what an artful young ^eing he had to deal, bent over 
and put his ear close to young Prettyman’s mouth. 
The next instant that young gentleman, with a skill- 
ful jerk, had suddenly extricated himself from the 
grasp of the Law and was skurrying away into the 
darkness, where it would have been folly to pursue 
him. 

Our friend Tommy, however, was only held all the 
tighter for his companion’s escape, and being pres- 
ently taken over to Miss Marrowphat’s piazza, and 
the door opened upon him, was at once recognized. 

“ Dear me ! ” cried Miss Funnyfeather (who had 
opened the door). “ If it ain’t Squire Alsop’s boy 
Tommy ! Who’d ’a’ thought it ! ” 

You naughty boy ! How could you steal my An- 
gelina ! ” cried Miss Marrowphat. But she was too 
overjoyed at the recovery of her cat to be very an- 
gry* 

Well,” said Constable Roper, who was a pretty 


Tfie Qiiecrclover Chronicles, 


good natured man, and who was^ dependent upon 
Tommy’s father for a great many profitable jobs. 
“ I guess I’d better take him over to the Squire, 
and let him punish him.” 

So Tommy, in the most humiliating manner, was 
led homeward ; and when his father heard what he 
had done, he gave him a good talking to, and sen- 
• fenced him to two weeks imprisonment at hard labor 
in the back garden. 

As for his associate in crime. Tommy obstinately 
refused from first to last, to reveal his name, which 
loyalty was repaid by young Prettyman’s coming and 
sitting on the fence the day after the circus, and 
driving poor Tommy nearly distracted, by telling him 
all about it. 


Queerclover Chronicles, 


II. ACCORDINGLY HIGGLETY PIGGLETY HIC HAEC HOC. 

M ISS PATIENCE POLYCARP brought her 
broom to a rest, and stood in her front door- 
way watching the three boys who had just tipped 
their hats to her as they went by. 

“You often see two persons arm-in-arm,” she re- 
marked to herself, “but three is something oncom- 
mon. An’ it’s a good sign, too. There ain’t three 
likelier and prettier boys than The Three Ws in the 
town of Turnover ! ” 

Miss Patience Polycarp might well say that The 
Three Ws ( so called because their first names all 
began with the letter W, and because they were al- 
most always together) were, in spite of their bare 
feet and torn straw hats, a trio of as well-behaved 
and manly lads as could be found in the whole town 
of Queerclover. Everybody liked them except, Squire 


Queer clover Chronicles. 

Barnaby, and he never liked anybody. As for go- 
ing bare footed and wearing ragged hats, nobody 
thought anything of that in Queerclover. 

While The Three Ws were still within speaking dis- 
tance a sudden impulse seemed to seize Miss Patience. 
She raised her voice and called after them shrilly : 

“ Boys ! boys ! ” will you come back a minute ? ” 

So the three lads turned promptly, dropping each 
other’s arms as they did so, and walked back to the 
front gate. 

“ I want you to help me a bit,” said Miss Patience. 
“ Can you ? ” 

“ Certainly, ma’am,” answered Winchell. “ It’s 
Saturday, an’ we’ve got the whole forenoon before us.” 

“It ain’t much of a job,” continued Miss Patience, 
“ but it’s more than 1 can manage.” Step in a 
minute.” 

So they all three took off their hats, and, wiping 
their feet on the door-mat, followed her in through 
the hall to the dining-room. Miss Polycarp pointed 
to a huge water-melon that lay in a platter on the 
table. One end of it had been cut off. 

“ There is the job,” said she. “ I want it taken off 
and eaten up. You can add another W to The Three 
W’s — eh, William Robeson?” And the good lady 
laughed happily. 


THE FOUR W^S 


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Qiiecrdover Chronicles. 


“Yes,” said Will, laughing too. “We’ll incorpor- 
ate it into the Firm, so to speak. No doubt War- 
ren and Winch will consent.” 

“ Of course,” put in Warren — Warren Holmes — 
“ but arn’t you robbing yourself, Miss Polycarp ? ” 

“ Bless you, no indeed ! I’ve eaten all I can of it 
already. It’ll spoil if you don’t take it. I expected 
comp’ny, but they didn’t come.” 

And then, thanking Miss Patience heartily, they 
took the water-melon in their arms and went out 
again. 

“ We are the Four W’s now,” said Winchell, as they 
went down the steps. Winchell’s last name was 
Holmes, too. He was Warren Holmes’ cousin. 

“ I guess you’ll very soon make yourselves three 
again,” Miss Patience answered after; and then she 
went back to her sweeping. 

- “ Now for a shady, comfortable place to eat it in,” 
said Will Robeson, as they walked along. 

“ There’s the Pond,” suggested Warren. “ It’s 
cool and comfortable over there.” 

“'What’s the use of going so far when there are 
plenty of places just as good close at hand ? ” ob- 
jected Winch. 

Where ? ” said Will. 

“Well, there’s 'Mill Hollow.” 


Queerclover Chronicles, 


“That’s two lots off at least,” declared Warren. 

“ Why not go over here right back of Squire Bar- 
naby’s barn ? It’s nice and shady there.” 

“ All right,” assented both the others ; and climb- 
ing the wall and crossing a brief intervening space 
they presently halted and threw themselves down on 
the grass in the shade of one of the Squire’s numer 
ous out-buildings. The boys of Queerclover were 
accustomed to go pretty much where they pleased. 

Without any unnecessary delay the Firm at once 
set about the business before them. Winchell sat in 
the centre and carved. The eating and the conver- 
sation were pretty equally divided among the three. 

“ Isn’t this red hot ! ” uttered Will from behind a 
strip of rind, that reached from ear to ear. 

“What.? The weather?” said Warren, wiping 
his brow with his sleeve, and picking up another 
slice that Winch had just cut off. 

“ No, the melon.” 

“ It certainly is a decidedly good one,” declared 
Warren. 

i “ It is perfectly delicious ! ” echoed Winch himself. 
“ As good as if we’d got it from the Squire’s melon 
patch.” 

“The Squire does raise some mighty nice mel- 
ons,” asserted Will. “ I wonder when his Japanese 


Qiieerclover Chronicles. 


melons will be ripe. He deserves to have ’em stolen. 
He’s so mean about ’em.” This was said in recol- 
lection of the fact that Squire Barnaby had been 
robbed of Irge quantities of his choicest melons the 
year before. During the present season he had 
given out that any one found on his melon-patch, 
would be shot at sight — a threat which so far, pre- 
served him from trespass. He had large quantities 
of all sorts of melons, but nobody ever got a taste of 
them except those who stole them, or those who paid 
for them. The Squire was not a generous man. 

“ They say stolen fruit is always the sweetest,” con 
tinned Winchell, as he brushed the dark seeds from 
still another slice. 

“ That accounts for this being so sweet,” said 
Will. And they all laughed together at the thought 
of good Miss Patience Polycarp’s having stolen the 
water melon ! 

By and by, when they had all eaten pretty nearly 
their fill. Will, who had been lying there with his chin 
in his hands, thoughtfully chewing a blade of grass, 
suddenly began laughing again — this time rather 
quietly as though to himself. 

“ What’s the matter now, Will ? ” — from Winch- 


ell. 


Queei'clover Chmiides, 


“ Nothing — only I was thinking of your compo- 
sition, yesterday. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

Winch laughed too, a little ruefully. 

“ It was rather funny,” he observed. 

“ I should accordingly think accordingly it accord- 
ingly was ! ” added Warren. And then again they all 
laughed merrily together. 

The allusion had been to one of Winchell’s school 
compositions which the teacher had read before the 
school the afternoon before, criticising it for the con- 
stant recurrence in it of the adverb accordingly. It 
seemed as though the young author had used it after 
almost every word. In one single short sentence it 
had occurred four times. 

All at oncQ Will ejected the remnants of the blade 
of grass from his mouth and spoke again. 

“ Idl tell you what let’s do, boys,” said he. “ Just 
for the fun of it, you know.” 

“ By all means, if there’s any fun in it,” cried the 
others. “What is it ? ” 

“For a certain time — say from twelve this noon, 
until six to-night, whenever any one of us says any- 
thing — no matter where or to whom — we will put 
in accordingly after every word. What do you say ? 
It will sound rather queer, won’t it ? But I reckon 
we shall get as much fun out of it as anybody.” 


Quee7'clover Chronicles, 


The others at once caught the idea proposed, and 
readily agreed to it. Warren had a slight amend- 
ment to suggest, however. 

“ While we are about it, let’s make it as funny as 
we can,” said he. “ There’s nothing very funny 
about the word accordingly. Why not take some 
other word instead ? ” 

“Well,” assented Will. “Or — say we first take 
that and add something to it. Let’s take accordingly 
higglety pigglety^ for instance. Or, accordingly higglety 
pigglety hie haec hod' 

“ Good ! ” pronounced-Winchell. “ And now let’s 
shake hands on it — to make it more binding, you 
know.” 

So they all stood up together and clasped hands 
as solemnly as the Men of Uri. 

“Understand now,” said Will again. From 
twelve o’clock this noon to six o’clock to-night.” 

“From twelve o’clock this noon to six o’clock to 
night ” — repeated his comrades. 

“We will say accordingly higglety pigglety hie haec 
hoeP 

“ We will say accordmgly higglety pigglety hie haec 
hocP echoed the Chorus. 

“ After every word we utter.” 

“ After every word we utter.” 


Queerclover Chronicles. 

“ Honor bright ! said Will. 

“ Honor bright ! ” declared the other two. 

And when The Three Ws said “honor bright/* 
you could depend upon them, be sure, though the 
very sky should tumble down. 

An hour after that Winchell Holmes, sitting at the 
dinner-table at home, reached over and helped him- 
self to a piece of corn-beef. 

“Why don't you ask for things when you want 
them, Winchell ” said his mother, in some surprise 

Winch made no reply. 

“ What’s the matter with you to-day, Winchell ? ” 
Mrs. Holmes continued. “ You haven’t said a single 
word since we sat down.’* 

Winch looked up and laughed, but still said noth- 
ing. Somehow or other, when the time came to do 
it, it was harder than he had thought to carry out the 
vow made in Squire Barnaby’s barn-yard. 

Before anything further could at this moment be 
said, however, there came a loud knock at the 
kitchen door. And then, when Mrs. Holmes opened 
it, there stood Hollis Roper, the town constable, 
with two or three persons just behind him. 

“ Is Winch here, Mrs. Holmes ? ” asked he. And 
then, seeing Winchell sitting at the table, he spoke 
directly to him. “You are wanted down ter ther 


Queerclover Chronicles. 


town-clerk’s office,” he said. Court begins at half 
parst one /2/rcisely.” 

“ What’s the matter ? ” exclaimed he. And then, 
suddenly recollecting himself, he added, half under 
his breath : “ Accordingly higglety pigglety hie haec 
hocr^ 

“Nothin’ — only you an’ Warren an’ Will Robeson 
hev ben inter Squire Barnaby’s melon patch. Least- 
ways, so the Squire says. I’ve got the other two 
boys outside here. You’ll hev ter come along at 
once. Court begins at harf-parst-one.” 

Winchell shut his teeth hard, and taking down his 
torn straw hat went out the door without a word. 
Warren and Will were in the yard and with them 
Jason Grant, Squire Barnaby’s man-of-all-work. 
Will looked up at Winch as the latter took his place 
beside them. 

“ Accordingly higglety pigglety hie haec hoc^ said he. 
At which all three of them laughed in spite of them- 
selves, although immediately after they fell into a 
lugubrious silence as they were directed to “ march 
along.” Poor Mrs. Holmes stood in the door-way 
looking very much distressed ; but Winch did not 
trust himself to say a single word to her. How 
could he with that terrible “ accordingly higglety pig- 
glety hie haec hoc sticking in his throat. 


Queerclover Chronicles. 


And for the same reason the three boys, after 
making one or two ineffectual attempts to discuss 
among themselves this unexpected turn of affairs, re- 
lapsed into silence, and would not even make answer 
when Hollis Roper spoke to them — at which he 
declared they were a grouty set, and he wouldn’t 
wonder if they were guilty after all. 

Arrived at the Court-room, they found the remain- 
der of Queerclover village (a good part of the Queer- 
cloverians had joined them by the way) anxiously 
awaiting their appearance. Justice Peters sat at one 
end of his long table with a number of huge law 
books before him, and Squire Barnaby at his side. 
Justice Peters was a retired attorney who had degen- 
erated into a country Justice of the Peace. He was 
known to be rather an obstinate old gentleman. 
Indeed, people of the village (by no means lacking 
in intelligence,) had been heard to speak of him as 
‘‘pig-headed,” a word perhaps more expressive than 
elegant. And a local wit had once declared that 
Justice Peters was like necessity — in that he “ knew 
no law.” 

Justice Peters called the “Court” (which con- 
sisted entirely of himself so far as lawyers were 
concerned) to order as soon as the prisoners arrived. 


Queerdover Chronides. 


and began the trial at once in a manner and method 
quite his own. 

Ahem ! ” the Justice began, ominously clearing 
his throat. “ The first witness for the State is Squire 
Barnaby. Squire Barnaby hold up your right hand.” 

The Squire was accordingly put upon his oath and 
then the Court proceeded to question him. 

What is your name ? ” 

“ Erastus T. Barnaby.” 

“ Erastus T, Barnaby ? ” 

Erastus Timothy Barnaby,” explained the 
Squire. 

“Very well! Ver}^ well!” uttered the Justice. 
“ You have a melon-patch. Squire Barnaby ? — O, by 
the way, what is your occupation ? ” 

I am a farmer,” said the Squire, “ and I have a 
melon-patch.” 

“ One thing at a time. Squire Barnaby,” put in the 
Justice. “ One thing at a time, if you please. You 
are a farmer, you say ? ” 

“ Yes,” nodded the Squire. 

“ And you have a melon-patch ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Ah ! Very well ! Very well ! So far so good ! 
Any melons on your melon-patch. Squire Barnaby ? ” 
“ Not so many as there were this morning I ” 


QueerdotJer Chronicles, 


burst out the Squire, his feelings here at once taking 
entire possession of him and causing him to grow 
quite red in the face. 

“ Ah ! ” said the justice. And how is that, 
Squire Barnaby ? ” 

Whereupon, with various interruptions and a 
“ Hum ! ” and “ Ha ! ” now and then from the 
Court, the ^ quire went on to relate that he had only 
a short time before found the tell tale remains of at 
least one of his own water-melons lying on the grass 
in his own barn-yard. He knew it was one of his 
own melons because of a peculiar way of tapping 
them that he had — and on examining one of the 
pieces of rind found, he had perceived that he him- 
self must have tapped it. 

Did you bring the piece of rind with you, Squire 
Barnaby ? ” questioned the Court. 

“ No,” said the Squire, “ I threw it to the hogs.” 

“Ah ! ” uttered the Court. “Very sorry for that — 
very sorry ! Have you any idea who took your 
melon, Squire Barnaby ? ” 

“ Yes, ^ cried the Squire. “ Thera three boys 
there — they took it.” And he pointed K) the three 
prisoners, who had been all this time standing, silent 
and rather disturbed where they had been first 
placed. 


Qtieerclover Chronicles. 


“That will do. That will do, Squire Barnaby,’’ 
said the Court with an air of satisfaction. “ We’ll 
call the next witness.” 

The next witness was Jason Grant. Jason also, 
was rigidly interrogated as to his name, age, occupa- 
tion, prospects, and numerous other points all bear- 
ing, of course, directly upon the case in court. 
Indeed, all these questions had to be asked and 
answered twice since the Court suddenly recollected, 
after a few minute’s examination of the witness, that 
the customary oath had been forgotten, so that it be- 
came necessary to go back and begin over again 
after this had been properly administered. 

Jason Grant was a very laconic and positive indi- 
vidual ; and his testimony, when at last his learned 
examiner came to the case itself, was directly to the 
point and very damaging to our three young friends. 
Condensed, and freed from the constant and irrele- 
vant remarks and interruptions of Justice Peters, it 
amounted to the following : 

Jason, who was, as has been said. Squire Barnaby’s 
man-of-all-work, had been in the barn back of the 
Squire’s house that morning — somewhere about 
eleven o’clock he thought, and, going up into the 
mow to pitch down some hay for the cattle, the sound 
of voices had come in to him through the open win- 


Queerdover Clu'onidcs. 


dovv of the barn. To this window he had, accord- 
ingly, quietly made his way, and looking out, had 
seen the three prisoners, William Robeson and War- 
ren and Winchell Holmes, sitting on the grass out- 
side and eating a water-melon. They were talking 
freely and he could hear distinctly what they said. 
They used Squire Barnaby’s name and were speak- 
ing of his melons. Indeed, the first words he under- 
stood were these, spoken by Winch Holmes : — “got 
it from the Squire’s melon-patch.” Jason did not 
catch the first part of this sentence, but these words 
he did hear distinctly ; and he inferred at once that 
it was the melon they were eating that the boys had 
got from the Squire’s melon-patch. He had then 
listened closely to what followed, long enough to 
assure himself that this inference was correct. Will 
Robeson had said that “ the Squire did raise first- 
rate melons” and wondered when his Japanese 
melons would be ripe. And then he had said — 
Jason remembered these words exactly too — “He 
deserves to have his melons stolen, he is so mean 
about ’em.” And then Winch had said that “ Stolen 
fruit was always the sweetest,” and Will had replied, 
“ That accounts for this one’s being so sweet,” at 
which they had all three laughed heartily. After 
that, the subject was changed ; and after waiting and 


Quecrdover Chronicles, 


listening a few moments longer to see if any more 
was said abont the melon, the witness had crept 
cautiously away again and reported the matter to the 
Squire. 

There was a decided sensation in the court-room 
as Jason finished his testimony; and everybody 
looked disapprovingly upon our three heroes, and 
murmurs of “ of course they’re guilty” — and “ they 
might as well own up ” — and many like expressions 
ran around the room. The Justice rapped on the 
table with great dignity and called everybody to 
order. 

“That closes the case for the prosecution,” said 
he. “ Now, young gentlemen, we will hear what you 
have to say.” And he looked severely at the prison- 
ers. 

The latter, however, did not seem to have anything 
at all to say for themselves. They sat silent and 
shame-faced with all eyes upon them. 

“ Winchell Holmes, we will hear you first,” Justice 
Peters went on. “ What have you to say ? ” 

Winch looked up with a big lump in his throat 
feeling that he must say something. 

“ Nothing,” he began ; and then he thought of his 
vow and his face flushed up and his tongue stam- 
mered as he blurted out : 


Quecrclover Chronicles. 

“Nothing but, accordingly higglety pigglety hie haec 
hocC 

Justice Peters looked at the lad in astonishment. 
“ I must say that is a novel plea to make,” exclaimed 
he. And then, beginning to think that Winch was 
making fun of him, he said severely, “You may sit 
down, sir. We’ll see if your companions make the 
same defense. Warren Holmes, what have you to 
say } ” 

Poor Warren, of much the same temperament as 
his cousin, and now even more demoralized than 
Winchell by what had just passed, made not a bit 
better work with his answer. 

“ Only — accordingly higglety pigglety hie haec hoc ^' — 
he murmured, and in a voice so low and tremulous 
that it could hardly have been heard but for the deep 
silence that prevailed throughout the room. 

Justice Peters brought the Statute Law of Massa- 
chusetts down upon the table with a tremendous 
bang and looked at the prisoners, scarcely able to be- 
lieve his ears. “ William Robeson,” cried he, “ let 
us hear if your senses have deserted you also 1 Are 
you guilty of this charge^ or not guilty ? ” 

Will looked straight at the Court and cleared his 
throat. He had rather more assurance than his two 
comrades, and, being questioned last, he had more 


Qiieerclover Chronicles, 


time to collect himself. He meant to do the best he 
could and still not violate his vow. So he began to 
speak distinctly and slowly. 

“Not accordingly higglety pigglety hie haee hoc 
guilty accordmgly higglety pigglety hie haec hoc said 
he. And then he paused, almost frightened at his 
own words and hardly knowing whether to laugh or 
to cry. 

“ What NONSENSE is this!” now fairly shouted 
the exasperated Justice. 

“ Are you all crazy ? I declare you guilty, every 
one of you, of feloniously stealing and eating one of 
Squire Barnaby’s water-melons. You are fined five 
dollars each and costs. The Court is adjourned I ” 

“ Wait a minute ! Wait a minute, Justice Peters,” 
at this instant a shrill voice was heard to cry out. 
And then, all .t once, there was Miss Patience- 
Polycarp making her way through the crowd to the 
table. 

“ There’s one more witness on t'other side,” said 
she. “ An’ that’s meP 

And then, without the formality of any oath and 
with no show of question or objection from the 
amazed magistrate, Miss Polycarp proceeded to re- 
late to the Court how she herself had given the boys 
their melon, which was one she had only the day be- 


Qiteerclover Chronicles. 

fore purchased, cash down, of Squire Erastus Bar- 
naby. 

The sensation caused in court, by this announce- 
ment, can be better imagined than described. Nor 
will we take space to describe — what, as a matter of 
course, followed — the acquittal of The Three W’s 
and their immediate discharge from custody. 

The people all crowded around them now to con- 
gratulate them ; but they answered always by smiles 
and looks rather than words, and as soon as was pos- 
sible made their way off into the adjacent fields by 
themselves. 

“ Confound accordingly higglety pigglety hie haee 
hoc/^^ exclaimed Winchell, as soon as they were 
alone. 

“ Agreed ! accordingly higglety pigglety hie haec 
hoc,” said Warren. And then they all three burst 
out laughing with all their might. 

It was plain however, that any satisfactory discus- 
sion of the matter between them was as good as im- 
possible with that awful “ accordingly higglety pigglety 
hie haec hoc,” leaping out of their mouths at every 
word, like the diamonds and toads in the fairy story ; 
so they finally, by tacit consent, went and sat down 
under the trees on the edge of the Pond, where 
Winchell stretched himself on his back and went to 


Qiieerdover Chronicles. 


sleep, Will read a newspaper he had in his pocket, 
and Warren fished with a pin in the water. And 
so, slowly and painfully, the long afternoon wore 
away. 

The instant the village clock began striking six, 
Will came to his feet with a bound. 

“ Are you fellows coming ? ” demanded he. 

“ Where } ” was the astonished question. 

“ You’ll see ! ” said Will ; and he started off 
toward the road at a rapid pace, followed by his com- 
panions. He led them straight to Squire Barnaby’s 
front door and gave the rapper a jerk. The Squire 
himself answered the summons. 

Will bowed gravely. 

I don’t wish to be disrespectful, Squire Barnaby,” 
said he, “ but I’ve got just Ihis to say and I mean 
it when I say it. If you ever accuse three honest 
boys of stealing your melons again, I’ll have you 
taken to court and tried, convicted and hung for it ! 
I will as sure as accordingly higglety pigglety hie haec 
hoc!'^ 

And then, having worked himself into a fine rage. 
Will shook his fist full in the disconcerted farmer’s 
face. 

After which, The Three W’s turned away and went 
home to supper, much relieved. 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 



S HE was a queer 
old lady, was 
Grandmother 
Grant ; she 
was not a bit 
like other 
grandmoth- 
ers ; she was 
short and fat 
and rosy as 
a winter ap- 

IN AMELIA’S MOB CAP. 

pie, with a 

great deal of snow-white hair set up in a big puff 
on top of her head, and eyes as black as huckle 
berries, always puckered up with smiles or laugh- 
ter. 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


She never would wear a cap. 

“ I can’t be bothered with ’em ! ” she sSid : and 
when Amelia Rutledge, who was determined her 
grandma should, as she said, “look half-way decent,” 
made her two beautiful little mob caps, soft and 
fluffy, and each with a big satin bow, one lavender 
and one white, put on to show where the front was. 
Grandma never put them on right ; the bow was over 
one ear or behind, or the cap itself was awry, and in the 
end she pulled them off and stuck them on a china 
jar in the parlor, or a tin canister on the kitchen 
shelf, and left them there till flies and dust ruined 
them. 

“ Amelia’s as obstinate as a pig ! ” said the old 
lady : “ she would have me wear ’em, and I 

wouldn’t ! ” 

That was all, but it was enough ; not a grandchild 
ever made her another cap. Moreover Grandmother 
Grant always dressed in one fashion ; she had a 
calico dress for morning and a black silk for the 
afternoon, made with an old-fashioned surplice waist, 
with a thick plaited ruff about her throat; she some- 
times tied a large white apron on, but only when she 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


went into the kitchen ; and she wore a pocket as big 
as three of yours, Matilda, tied on underneath and 
reached through a slit in her gown. Therein she 



MRS. MARIA FINDS THE LOST SPECS. 


kept her keys, her smelling-bottle, her pocket-book, 
her handkerchief and her spectacles, a bit of flag- 
root and some liquorice stick. I mean when I say 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


this, that all these things belonged in her pocket, and 
she meant to keep them there ; but it was one pecu- 
liarity of the dear old lady, that she always lost her 
necessary conveniences, and lost them every day. 

“ Maria ! ” she would call out to her daughter in 
the next room, “ have you seen my spectacles } ” 

“ No, mother ; when did you have them ? ” 

“Five minutes ago, darning Harry’s stockings; 
but nevermind, there’s another pair in the basket.” 

In half an hour when Gerty came into her room 
for something she needed. Grandmother would say : 

“ Gerty, do look on the floor and see if my specs 
lie anywhere around.” 

Gerty couldn’t find them, and then Grandma would 
say : 

“Probably they dropped out on the grass under 
the window, you can see when you go. down; but 
give me my gold pair out of my upper drawer.” 

And when Mrs. Maria went to call her mother 
down to dinner she would find her hunting all about 
the room, turning her cushions over, peering into the 
wood-basket, shaking out the silk quilt, and say 
“ What is it you want, mother ? ” 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


“ My specs, dear. I can’t find one pair.” 

“ But there are three on your head now ! ” and 
Grandma would sit down and laugh till she shook all 

over, as if it were the best joke in the world to push 

# 

your spectacles up over the short white curls on your 
forehead, one pair after another, and forget all 
about them. 

She mislaid her handkerchief still oftener. Gerty 
would sometimes pick up six of these useful articles 
in one day where the old lady dropped them as she 
went about the house ; but the most troublesome of 
all her habits was a way she had of putting her 
pocket-book in some queer place every night, or if 
ever she left home in the day-time, and then utterly 
forgetting where she had secreted it from the burg- 
lars or thieves she had all her life expected. 

The house she lived in was her own, but Doctor 
White who had married her daughter Maria, rented 
it of her, and the rent paid her board ; she had a 
thousand dollars a year beside, half of which she 
reserved for her dress and her charities, keeping the 
other h^lf for her Christmas gifts to her children and 
grandchildren. There were ten of these last, and 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


the ten always needed something. Gerty White, the 
Doctor’s daughter, was twelve years old; she had 
three brothers: Tom, John, and Harry, all older 
than she was. Mrs. Rutledge, who had been Annie 
Grant, was a widow with three daughters — Sylvia, 
Amelia and Anne, all young ladies now out in 
society and always glad of new dresses, gloves, bon- 
nets, ribbons, lace, and the thousand small fineries 
girls never have to their full satisfaction. There 
were Thomas Grant’s two girls of thirteen and fif- 
teen, Rosamond and Kate, and his little boy Hal, 
crippled in his babyhood so that he must always go 
on crutches, but as bright and happy as Grandma 
herself, and her prime favorite. 

Now it was Grandma’s way to draw her money out 
of the bank two weeks before Christmas, and go into 
Boston with Mrs. White to buy all the things she had 
previously thought over for these ten and their 
parents; and one winter she had made herself all 
ready to take the ten-o’clock train, and had just 
taken her pocket-book out of the drawer when she 
was called down-stairs to see a poor woman who had 
come begging for some clothes for her husband. 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE, 


^‘Come right up stairs, Mrs. Slack, said Grandma. 
“I don’t have many applications for men’s things, 
so I guess there’s a coat of Mr. Grant’s put away in 
the camphor chest, and maybe a vest or so ; you sit 
right down by my fire whilst I go up garret and 
look.” 

It took Grandma some time to find the clothes 
under all the shawls and blankets in the chest, and 
when she had given them to Mrs. Slack she had to 
hurry to the station with her daughter, and the cars 
being on the track they did not stop to get tickets, but 
were barely in time to find seats when the train rolled 
off. The conductor came round in a few minutes and 
Grandma put her hand in her pocket, suddenly turned 
pale, opened her big satchel and turned out all its 
contents, stood up and shook her dress, looked on 
the floor, and when Mrs. White said in amazement, 
“What is the matter mother?” she answered curtly,- 
“ I’ve lost my pocket-book.” 

“ Was it in your pocket ? ” asked Maria. 

“ Yes ; at least I s’pose so : I certainly took it out of 
my drawer, for I noticed how heavy ’twas ; that new 
cashier gave me gold for most of it, you see.” 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


“ You’d have known then if you dropped it on the 
way, mother.” 

“ I should think so : any way, I can’t go to Boston 
without it ! we may as well stop at the next station 
and go back.” 

So back they went; asked at the ticket office if 
any such thing had been picked up on the platform, 
and leaving a description of it, went rather forlornly 
back to the house. Here a terrible upturning of 
everything took place ; drawers were emptied, cup- 
boards ransacked, trunks explored, even the camphor 
chest examined to its depths, and everything in it 
shaken out. 

“ You don’t suspect Mrs. Slack .? ” inquired Maria. 

“ Sally Slack ! no, indeed. I’ve known her thirty • 
year, Maria ; she’s honest as the daylight.” 

Still Maria thought it best to send for Mrs. Slack 
and inquire if she had seen it when she was at the 
house. 

“ Certain, certain ! ” answered the good woman. “ I 
see Mis’ Grant hev it into her hand when she went 
up charmber; I hedn’t took no notice of it before 
but she spoke up an’ says says she, ‘ I’ll go right up 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


now, Mis’ Slack, for I’m in some of a hurry, bein’ 
that I’m a goin’ in the cars to Bosstown for to buy 
our folkses’ Christmas things ; so then I took notice 
’t she hed a pocket-book into her hand.” 

This was valuable testimony, and Mrs. Slack’s 
face of honest concern and sympathy showed her 
innocence in the matter. Next day there was an 
advertisement put in the paper, for the family con- 
cluded Grandma must have dropped her money in 
the street going to the station, but the advertisement 
proved as fruitless as the search, and for once in 
her life the dear old lady was downcast enough. 

“ The first time I never gave ^em a thing on Christ- 
mas! I do feel real downhearted about it, Maria. 
There’s Annie’s three girls lotted so on their gloves 
an’ nicknacks for parties this winter, for I was goin’ 
to give them gold pieces so ’s they could get what 
they wanted sort of fresh when they did want it ; 
and poor Gerty’s new cloak ! ” 

“ Oh, never mind that, mother. I can sponge and 
turn and fix over the old one ; a plush collar and cuffs 
will make it all right.” 

“ But there’s the boys. Tom did want that set of 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


tools and a bench for ’em ; and I reckoned on seeing 
Harry’s eyes shine over a real New-foundland dog. 
That makes me think ; won’t you write to that man 
in New York ? I’ve changed my mind about the dog. 
And Jack can’t go to Thomas’s now for vacation ; oh 
dear ! ” 

worry, mother,” said Maria; but Grandma 

went on. 

“Kate and Rosy too, they won’t get their seal 
muffs and caps, and dear little Hal ! how he will 
long for the books I promised him. It’s real trying, 
Maria ! ” and Grandma wiped a tear from her eyes, 
a most unusual sympton. 

But it was her way to make the best of things, and 
she sat down at once to tell Thomas of her loss, and 
then put it out of her mind as well as she might. 

It spoke well for all those ten grandchildren that 
they each felt far more sorry for Grandmother Grant’s 
disappointment than their own, and all resolved to 
give her a present much nicer and more expensive 
than ever before, pinching a little on their other gifts 
to this end ; and because they had to spare from their 
other presents for this laudable purpose, it was natu- 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


ral enough that not one should tell another what they 
meant to send her, lest it should seem too extravagant 
in proportion to what the rest of the family received. 
Christmas morning the arrival began. The stocking 
of Grandpa’s which Gerty had insisted on hanging 
to the knob of Grandma’s door was full, and when 
she came down to breakfast she brought it with her 
still unsearched, that the family might enjoy her sur- 
prise. 

At the top a square parcel tied with blue ribbon 
was marked “from Gerty,” and proved to be a little 
velvet porte-monnaie. 

“ Dear child ! how thoughtful ! ” said Grandma, 
giving her a kiss, and not observing that the Doctor 
looked funnily at Mrs. White across the table. 

The next package bore John’s name and disclosed 
a pocket-book of Russia leathet. 

“So useful!” said Grandma, with a twinkle of 
gratitude in her kind old eyes. 

Harry emitted a long low whistle, and his eyes 
shone as the next paper parcel with his name on it 
showed an honest black leather pocket-book with a 
steel clasp. 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


Grandma had to laugh. Doctor White roared, and 
Tom looked a little rueful as his bundle produced 
another wallet as like to Harry’s as two peas in a pod : 

“ Dear boys ! ” said Grandma, shaking like a liberal 
bowl of jelly with the laughter she tried to suppress 
in vain ; but it was the boys’ turn to shout as further 
explorations into the foot of the old blue stocking 
brought up a lovely seal-skin wallet from their mother, 
and a voluminous yellow leather one from the Doctor. 

“ ‘ Six ’ souls with but a single thought 
* Six ’ hearts that beat as one ; ” 

misquoted Mrs. Maria, and a chorus of laughter that 
almost rattled the windows followed her. They were 
still holding their sides and bursting out afresh every 
other minute, when pretty Sylvia Rutledge sailed into 
the dining-room with a delicate basket in her hand. 

“Merry Christmas!” said she, “but you seem to 
have it already.” 

The boys all rushed at once to explain. 

“Wait a minute,” said she, “till I have given 
Grandma her gifts,” and she produced successively 
from her basket four parcels. 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


Sylvia’s held another velvet porte-monnaie ; Annie’s 
contained a second of hand-painted kid, daisies on a 
black ground ; and Amelia’s was a third pocket-book 
of gray canvas with Russia leather corners and straps ; 
while Mrs. Rutledge’s tiny packet produced an old- 
fashioned short purse with steel fringe and clasp 
which she had knit herself for her mother. 

How can words tell the laughter which hailed this 
repetition? The boys rolled off their chairs and 
roared till their very sides ached; tears streamed 
down Mrs. White’s fair face; Grace gazed at the 
presents with a look half rueful and half funny, while 
the Doctor’s vigorous “haw! haw! haw!” could have 
been heard half a mile had it not been happily the 
season of shut doors and windows, while Sylvia her- 
self perceiving the six pocket-books which had 
preceded her basketful, appreciated the situation 
and laughed all the harder because she was not tired 
with a previous fit of mirth, and Grandma sat shaking 
and chuckling in her chair, out of breath to be sure, 
but her face rosy and her eyes shining more than 
ever. Suddenly a loud knock at the front door inter- 
rupted their laughter. Tom ran to admit the in- 


GHANPMA had to DAUGH. doctor vvhjtk roared, 



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A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


truder; it was the expressman with a box from New 
York directed in uncle Tom’s hand to Mrs. J. G. Grant. 

“ Something better than pocket-books this time, 
mother !” said the Doctor, as Tom ran for the screw- 
driver ; but alas ! the very first bundle that rolled 
out and fell heavily to the floor, proved when picked 
up to be indeed another pocket-book, cornered and 
clasped with silver, and grandma’s initials on the 
clasp ; beautiful as the gift was it was thrust aside 
with a certain impatience, for the next package, 
labelled “ from Rosamond,” but opened only to 
display the very counterpart of Amelia’s gift ; and a 
paper box with Kate’s script outside held the recurrent 
pocket-book .again in black velvet and gilt corners, 
while a little carved white-wood box, the work of 
Hal’s patient fingers, showed within its lid a purse 
of silvered links which had cost all his year’s savings. 

This was the last touch. Hitherto their curiosity 
as one thing was displayed after another, had kept 
them in a sort of bubbling quiet, but this final 
development was too much ; they laughed so loud 
and so long that old Hannah, hurrying from the 
kitchen and opening the door to see what was the 


A CASE OF COINCIDENCE. 


matter, looked thunderstruck as she beheld the whole 
family shaking, choking, rolling about or holding on 
to each other in roars of side-splitting laughter, while 
fourteen purses and pocket-books made the break- 
fast table look like a fancy fair. 

I thought I heard a crackling of thorns, as 
scripter says,” she growled. “Be you a going to set 
up a fancy store. Mis’ White ? ” 

“ Bring in breakfast, Hannah,” said the Doctor, 
recovering himself. “ It’s a melancholy truth that 
we can’t eat pocket-books ! ” 

For the satisfaction of the curious I must explain 
that the next May, when a certain old clock on 
the landing of the garret stairs was taken down to be 
put in order and made into a household god after the 
modern rage for such things, right under it lay 
Grandma’s pocket-book intact. 

“ Well, now I remember ! ” said the astonished 
old lady, who never did remember where she had 
hidden anything till somebody else found it. 

“ I was goin’ up to the chest to get out those things 
of husband’s for Sally Slack, and I thought I wouldn’t 
leave my pocket-book in my room, ’twould be putting 


A CASE OE COINCIDENCE. 


temptation in her way, which isn’t really right if a 
person is ever so honest ; we’re all frail as you may 
say when our time comes, and I didn’t have my cloak 
on to put it in the pocket, and my u»der pocket was 
full, so I just slipped it under the clook case as I 
went up, feeling certin sure I should remember it 
because I never put it there before.” 

But the family voted that no harm had been done 
after all, for next Christmas the Rutledge girls each 
had a lovely silk party dress from the double fund ; 
Sylvia’s cloak was mated by the prettiest hat and 
muff ; Tom had his wild desire for a bicycle fulfilled ; 
Harry owned a real gold watch which was far better 
than a dog; and Jack’s ten gold eagles took him in 
the spring to Niagara and down the St. Lawrence, a 
journey never to be forgotten. Kate and Rosamond 
had their sealskin caps with muffs, gloves and velvet 
skirts to correspond with and supplement their last 
year’s jackets; and Hal not only had his precious 
books, but a bookcase for them, and the pocket-books 
were re-distributed among their givers ; so that in the 
end good and not evil came of Grandma’s losing her 
Christmas pocket-book ! 


THE APOTHECARY’S VAL- 
. ENTINE. 


TT was a lonely house for a child to live in — only 
papa, who had been ill for many months, little 
Ida herself, the ten-year-old mistress of the establish- 
ment, and Mrs. Libby the housekeeper. Across the 
street the postman had been ringing all day. Ida 
watching at the window, with a piece of red flannel 
around her throat, had seen little lads and lassies 
slipping envelopes under the doors ; then small girls, 
and sometimes big girls, came out on the steps, looked 
up and down the street, and smiled as if they were 
very much pleased. 

“ Why do they get so many letters to-day ? ” asked 
> Ida timidly. 

Mrs. Libby was cleaning the nursery closet, and 
answered shortly : “ Those are valentines ; come 
away from the window. You’ll get cold.” 


THE apothecary’s VALENTINE. 


“Valentines,” said Ida thoughtfully to herself; 

“ I wonder what that is.” 

She slipped down to the library and dragged the 
V encyclopaedia beside the register. Ida had long 
since adopted the plan of looking up Mrs. Libby’s 
replies in papa’s library. The child’s head bent over 
the page : “Valentines — a declaration of affection 
between two people, sent on St. Valentine’s Day, the 
fourteenth of February.” 

“ A valentine must be something very nice,” thought 
Ida, “ the children over the way were so happy ; I 
wish I could send one, but I only know Mrs. Libby.” 
And with a sigh, she put the heavy book back. Mrs. 
Libby came down stairs with her bonnet and shawl 
on, and Ida, taking a small purse from her pocket, 
asked, “ Will you please to buy a valentine ? ” 

“What for?” 

“ For me to give to you.” 

“ Nonsense ! Little girls don’t send valentines to 
old women like me. Keep your ten cents to put in 
the box, when you get well enough to go to church.” 

Ida sat still a long time after this. She wanted to 
be like other little girls, but all the little girls she had 


THE apothecary’s VALENTINE. 


ever known intimately, were in books, and it so hap- 
pened that none of these had ever spoken of V alentine’s 
Day. The telephone bell rang. Ida heard the house- 
maid order “ five pounds of coffee crushed sugar to 
be sent up immediately,” and then an idea came into 
the child’s mind : “I can’t go out to buy a valentine, 
but I can telephone one.” She repeated again, “ A 
valentine is a declaration of affection ; yes ! I can 
telephone a declaration of affection. Mrs. Libby is 
out. Papa can’t hear in his room, and I’ll get Mary 
to go down and look at the furnace.” Thus Ida 
made her plans. 

The next question was, To whom should she send 
her valentine ? 

“ I’d better look on the telephone list. Seth Ben- 
net, M. D. That’s the doctor who comes to see papa 
and me ; he wouldn’t be in — he is always out. John 
Dixon, grocer; Thomas Irving, baker; oh, here is 
R. H. Whitney! That’s the nice apothecary man 
who brings the medicines. I’d like to send him a 
valentine.” 

Richard Whitney’s clerk stood at the telephone. 
Messages were coming in very fast that February 


/ 






THE apothecary’s VALENTINE. 


afternoon. Sam Jones, the under clerk, was putting 
up the packages : “ One porous plaster for Mrs. Lewis. 
Two ounces pulverized slippery elm bark, sent imme- 
diately to 19 Spruce St. Some one wants to speak 
to Mr. Whitney.” “All right,” he shouted back 
through the telephone. “ He’s in the back shop ; I’ll 
call him.” 

There was a smell of chloroform in the back shop. 
Mr. Whitney, on top of a step ladder, was preparing 
a prescription. 

“A lady wants to speak to you, sir,” said the clerk. 

“ Couldn’t she give the message ? ” 

“ Said she couldn’t.” 

Mr. Whitney went to the telephone and called 
“ What’s wanted ? ” 

To his astonished ears came back : “ I send you a 
declaration of affection.” 

“ I do not understand,” said the apothecary, not 
quite sure of his hearing. 

The message was repeated, each word very distinct. 

“ Who is it } ” 

“ Your Valentine.” 

Sam Jones, judging from the expression of Mr. 


THE apothecary’s VALENTINE. 


Whitney’s face that it was a case of strangling, convul- 
sions, or poisoning, had taken down his hat ready to 
run. “No matter, Sam,” said his employer, returning 
to the chloroform atmosphere of the back shop. It 
could not be a joke; the voice was too sweet and 
true. A child’s voice — a little girl’s, he thought — 
but he did not know any little girls. It might be one 
of the orphans at the asylum — probably was. Every 
Christmas Richard Whitney had been in the habit of 
sending a number of small bottles of cologne to the 
large brick house over the way. He did it from prin- 
ciple, not from any acquintance with the children. 

Valentine’s evening there was an exhibition at the 
asylum. Richard Whitney went. “Such a kind 
gentleman,” said the matron ; “ he spoke to every 
child.” 

Then the public school examinations took place. 
Richard Whitney attended them all. 

He became a Sunday-school superintendent ; next 
he got his sister to give a little girls’ party. 

“ Mr. Whitney has grown awful fond of children all 
of a sudden,” said the head clerk to the second clerk. 
Ah, but no one knew he was listening for the voice 


THE apothecary’s VALENTINE. 


of his valentine. The apothecary and Ida’s papa 
were old friends ; of late years they had seldom met, 
but these last months of Mr. Hammond’s illness had 
brought them together again. Ida was a shy child 
and kept out of the way of visitors. The apothecary 
was not aware that he had ever seen her. 

One April afternoon he met a womanly little girl 
coming down-stairs with a tray in her hand. “ Miss 
Ida, I suppose,” he said passing her. Ida nodded 
gravely, and as Richard Whitney looked over the 
balustrade he thought, “ What a lonely life for a 
child ! I wonder if she goes out much I I will give 
her a drive to-morrow.” 

Mr. Hammond was very weak that night, and when 
Richard Whitney bending over him, asked, “John, 
will you trust your little daughter to me ? ” the only 
reply was a tighter clasp of the hand. 

Early the next morning Sam Jones left a parcel of 
gum-drops and a note for Miss Ida Hammond. Pres- 
ently the telephone bell rang and the head clerk said 
again, “A lady wishes to speak to you.” 

The message was simply this ; “ Thank you very 

much; I cannot go — papa is worse.” 


THE apothecary’s VALENTINE. 


Richard Whitney started. It was the voice he had 
waited so long to hear. “ Why, it’s Hammond’s little 
girl,” he said, hurrying down the street. “ Poor 
child ! ” 

Papa died a few days later, leaving his little 
daughter in the care of his old friend ; and now, every 
day, a child in a black dress comes into the shop, to 
walk home with uncle Richard. 

“ Wonder why he calls her Valentine ; thought her 
name was Ida,” said the head clerk. 

“ Perhaps Valentine is her middle name,” suggested 
Sam Jones. 

“That must be it,” said the head clerk; “yes, 
that must certainly be the reason.” 


MR. TENNYSON’S FAIRIES. 


T CALL them Mr. Tennyson’s fairies, because the 
people on the Isle of Wight, where this great poet 
lives, call them his. But of course he does not own 
them. Indeed, I doubt if ever he saw them. But I 
saw them once. Indeed I did, and I will tell you all 
about how it happened. I am sure it will amuse you, 
for I doubt if you can find another six-foot man 
with a full big beard on his face and with all his 
senses about him, who can truly say that he has seen 
a fairy. Of course some children have seen fairies ; 
or at least thought so. And no doubt some very 
good and honest women have also. But surely not 
another big-bearded man who has twice sailed around 
this world, can be found who can boldly and truly 
say that he has seen Mr. Tennyson’s fairies. 

You must know this greatest of all living poets 
lives on the green grassy end of his Island, just 


MR. Tennyson’s fairies. 


under the shadow of a smooth round hill that looks 
out over the sea, with a great flag staff on it and 
nothing else. 

So this gives the fairies a great chance to meet 
there and dance on the green grassy knoll looking 
down on the poet’s house. 

W.ell, about twelve years ago I left the mountains of 
Oregon and went straight to England. The very 
first thing I did I went to where Robert Burns had 
lived and was buried ; then I went to see the grave 
of Byron, and then I went to see if I could get a peep 
at Mr. Tennyson on his green little island. 

I was very timid and quite alone and unknown, 
and so I did not dare to call on him or go nearer his 
house than the gate. 

So I looked over the little gate at the red flowers 
set in little beds on either side the road that ran up 
toward the house, about a hundred steps away. The 
house stood in the midst of green fir and pine-trees, 
so that I could see but little of it. It seemed to be 
a small house. I heard carpenters at work ham- 
mering very hard and fast. Perhaps they were 
building a bigger house or making some addition 


MR. TENNYSON^S FAIRIES. 


to this modest little one half hidden among the trees. 

I remember wondering how in the world Mr. 
Tennyson could write his beautiful poems with such 
work going on about his ears. And I remember 
thinking too, that if I were he and had that little 
house I would love it just as it was. And then I 
thought, perhaps his wife or boys wanted a bigger 
house, and so had called in the noisy carpenters. 

I stood there quite a time, and then as I did not 
see any one, I thought I would open the gate and go 
up the path to the house and get one of the carpenters’ 
chips of the poet’s house. 

I got the gate open and started up the path with a 
beating heart, for I was shy and frightened all the 
time, and if I had seen Mr. Tennyson, I surely should 
have run away very fast. 

As I went up the garden and got near the house, 
I saw a man coming from among the trees. He had 
a scythe on his arm, and no doubt was the gardener. 
I stopped when I saw him, and when 1 saw that he 
was coming down the path toward me, I turned and 
ran with all my might down to the gate and out and 
down the lane. 


MR. Tennyson’s fairies. 


Of course the poet would have been very kind to 
me if I had been bold enough to go up to the house 
and call quietly, and say how much I wanted to see 
him. But I was too timid and shy then. 

I once saw it stated 'n the newspapers, that I was 
spending the summer with him at that little house 
But that was a mistake. I have never been inside 
the gate since the time I ran away with all my might 
down the lane. 

Well, I went back to my inn, in the village near by, 
feeling more proud at having seen the home of Ten- 
nyson than if I had dined with the Queen. I asked 
the people about the inn a thousand things, and they 
had only kind words to say of the quiet and thought- 
ful poet in the little house among the trees under the 
round green hill that looks out upon the sea, an — 

The fairies ? Oh, yes ! 

Well, the stout, red, fat man with a double chin, 
who brought me my chop and tea, as it was growing 
dusk, told me that Mr. Tennyson’s fairies would be 
out to dance on the round grassy hill that night, for 
it was the full of the moon, and it was a very bright 
and beautiful moon too. 


MR. Tennyson’s fairies. 


I listened to all he said about fairies very thought- 
fully. Then when all was still and most of the people 
had gone to bed, I put on my cloak and walked out, 
and up on the green round hill overlooking the great 
sea to the west, and sat down on the highest point. 

The moon rode like a lonesome ship in the vast 
blue heavens above, and the sea beneath was like 
silver. 

I was very tired, and so drew my cloak about me 
and lay down on my breast, with my chin in my 
upturned palms. 

I thought of many things : of my parents, thousands 
and thousands of miles away, of the great poet, in 
the little house amid the trees just under the hill ; 
and of the future. 

Suddenly I heard little feet. Patter! patter! 
patter! The little feet stopped, then they started 
faster than ever. Then I saw something run past me 
and around me and around and around. Then there 
were two ! Then three ! Then four ! Then a dozen 
or more ! 

At first I let my face fall down and hide in my 
cloak. I am not afraid of bears or any big thing 


MR.. Tennyson’s fairies. 


like that. But I tell you when fairies no taller than your 
knee, come out at midnight and make up their minds 
to dance around you as if you were a sort of Jack- 
in-the-green — well, I think the bravest of you would 
drop your face and hide it for a minute or two. 

After a while I did not hear them running, and so 
I lifted my head and peeped out. 

There they stood on their hind legs in the fairy 
ring all around me. They seemed to be bowing to 
each other as if they were about to begin a dance. 

I could see one big fellow as high as my knee, lay 
his hand on his white breast and bow gravely to his 
little lady to the right. 

The little lady would bend and courtesy back very 
beautifully. She seemed to be in a ball dress with 
a very low neck. There was a great big white spot 
on her pretty little breast. She seemed to be wearing 
a queer little bonnet, which flopped and fluttered as 
she courtesyed ; and the great big fellow bowed before 
her with his hand on his heart, again and again. 

And oh, but wasn’t I frightened ! I started to 
scramble up and run. I am no coward surely, for I 
don’t mind wolves or wildcats or even a few dozen 


MR. TENNYSON’S FAIRIES. 


bears. But I was never so frightened before as I 
was at these fairies. 

But as I sprang to my feet and started to run, 
what do you think ? Eh ! Why, dozens of big fat 
white rabbits darted off in every direction, quite as 
badly frightened as I was. And these big white- 
breasted rabbits were Mr. Tennyson’s Fairies. 


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NEW Publications. 


Originality. liy Elias Nason. Boston r I). Lotlirop <6; 
Co. Price $.50. Mr. Nason lias here made a reply to 
Wendell Phillips’ “Lost Arts,” which is well worth read- 
ing for its point and snggestiveness. He endeavors to show 
the meaning of the word, and what important results have 
come from the originating powers of a few bright men since 
the beginning of civilization. He takes np, one by one, the 
points made by Mr. Phillips in his famous lecture, and shows 
on what slight grounds they rest, and of how little weight 
they really are when examined and analyzed. Mr. Nason 
does not believe that any of the useful arts have been lost. 
The ancients had few to lose. They made glass, but they 
did not know how to use it. They could embalm dead 
bodies; but of what use were embalmed dead bodies ? They 
had some knowledge of mathematics, but a school-boy’s 
arithmetic to-day contains more mathematical knowledge 
than has come out of all the exhumed cities of the Orient. 
There w^ere more marvels of art displayed at the Centennial 
exhibition than in the ancient world for twenty centuries. 
Mr. Nason insists that the sesthetical productions of the 
ancients have been vastly over-estimated. The periods of 
Demosthenes,” he says, “ yield in Titanic force to the 
double -compact sentences of Daniel Webster. Mr. Phillips 
himself has sometimes spoken more eloquently than Cicero. 
Homer never rises to the sublimity of John Milton.” The 
world grows wiser and better. Age by age, it has been de- 
veloping its resources and adding pearl to pearl to the diadem 
of its wisdom ; sometimes slower, sometimes quicker, but 
always upward and onward. Mr. Nason writes in a fresh 
and sparkling style, and the thousands who have listened 
with rapt attention to Mr. Phillips^’ eloquent presentation of 
his side of the question will find equal pleasure and greater 
profit in reading this charming essay, which is equally elo- 
quent and unquestionably sounder in its conclusions. 

The Life and Writings of Charles Dickens. By 
Phebe A. Hanaford. Boston: D. Lothrop & Co. Price 
$1.50. A life of Dickens, written by a popular author 
and upon a new plan, will be sure to meet with favor at the 
hands of the public. Mrs. Hanaford has not attempted to 
write a critical and original analysis of the great author 
from her own point of view, but, while sketching the main 
incidents of his life, has quoted liberally from his works to 
illustrate his genius, and from the correspondence and 
writings of his personal friends to show the estimation in 
which he was held by them as a man, a philanthropist and 
a Christian. The volume commends itself to every lover of 
Dickens, and deserves to be widely known and read. 


New Publications. 


The Old Oaken Bucket. By Samuel Woodworth. 
Quarto Holiday edition. Boston: D. Lothrop & Co. Price 
$1.50. Of all the illustrated quarto presentation books yet 
issued, this is by all odds the most artistic and tasteful. The 
art of the designer, engraver and printer has in turn been 
exhausted to bring it as near perfection as possible. The 
drawings are from the skilful pencil of Miss Humphrey, and 
represent her best work. The engraving is by W. H. Clos- 
son, whose reputation in that line is equal to that of any 
other man in the country, and the printing is from new 
type on heavy paper with broad margins and gilt edges. In 
general style and binding the volume is uniform with The 
Ninety and Nine, Drifting, etc. 

The Story of Four' Acorns. By Alice B. Engle. 111. 
Boston: D. Lothrop & Co. Price $1.00. Children who like 
fairy stories will find in this handsome volume a fountain of 
delight. The author possesses rare talent for interesting the 
young, and has here turned it to the best advantage. She 
has furnished a fascinating story, and has ingeniously 
woven into it bits of poetry and song from famous authors 
which will find easy entrance into the mind and create an 
appetite for more. The illustrations are among Miss Lath- 
bury’s best, and do their part toward making the volume 
attractive. 

A capital idea is represented in the new book. Historic 
Pictures, suggested by the success of last season’s volume, 
Write Your Own Stories. It consists of a collection of pict- 
ures illustrating places and events of historic interest, 
thirty in number, with three blank pages after each picture, 
which are to be utilized by the boys and girls in writing an 
account of the incidents which have made the various places 
famous. The publishers offer a series of cash prizes for 
competitors, the lists to remain open until July 1, 1S82. 
The one who sends the best series of stories or historical 
descriptions of the pictures, will receive $25.00 ; the author 
of the second best, $15.00, and the third in point of excel- 
lence, $10.00. 


NEW Publications- 


The Life and Explorations of David Livingstone, 
LL. D. By Jolm S. Eoberts. Including Extracts from Dr. 
Livingstone’s Last Journal. By Rev. E. A. Manning, wiib 
Portrait on steel and illustrations. Boston: D. Lothrop & 
Co. Price $1.50. So long as there exists in the hurnau 
mind an admiration for heroism in a good cause, for cour- 
age under extraordinary difficulties, for inflexible persever- 
ance in the face of obstacles seemingly insurmountable, and 
for faith remaining unshaken amidst disheartening sur- 
roundings, so long will the memory of David Livingstone 
be held in respect and reverence. The simple and un- 
adorned story of the wanderings and sufferings of the mis- 
sionary explorer in the wilds of Africa possesses a stronger 
fascination than the most skilfully-devised romance. More 
than thirty of the most active years of the life of Living- 
stone were spent in Africa. Going to that country at the 
early age of twenty-seven to engage in missionary work, for 
nine years he mingled with the native tribes, acquiring 
their language, teaching, and making such explorations as 
were incidental to his labors. At the end of that time, 
fired with the desire of opening up the mysteries of that 
almost unknown country, he set out upon a journey of 
exploration, the particular aim being th6 discovery of Lake 
Ngami. He succeeded, and collected, besides, a vast 
amount of scientific and geographical information which 
was entirely new. In 1852, having sent his family to Eng- 
land, he started on another journey of exploration, being 
absent four years, and traversing in that time over eleven 
thousand miles. On his return he published his first book, 
in which he detailed his discoveries. He paid a short visit 
to England, where he was received with open arms by 
scholars and scientific men, and every honor was accorded 
him. In 1858 he began his third voyage of exploration, ac- 
companied by his wife, who died on the way. He returned 
in 1868, but immediately set out with a more extended plan 
in view. For more than four years nothing was heard from 
him except in the way of rumors. Then letters came, long 
delayed, detailing his plans, followed by a silence of two 
years. In 1871 he was found at Ujiji, alive and well, by 
Henry M. Stanley, who had been sent in search of him by 
the New York Herald. He joined Stanley, who had been 
given a carte blanche for explorations, and was with him 
until he died. May 1, 1873, at Ilala, in Central Africa. The 
present volume is an intensely interesting account of these 
several journeys compiled from the most authentic sources, 
the chief being Livingstone’s own descriptions and journals. 


New Publications, 


Five Little Peppers and How They Grew. By 
Margaret Sidney. 111. Boston : D. Lothrop & Co. Price 
$1.50. Of all the books for juvenile readers which crowd 
the counters of the dealers this season, not one possesses so 
many of those peculiar qualities which go to make up a per- 
fect story as this charming work. It tells the story of a 
happy family, the members of which, from the mother to the 
youngest child, are bound together in a common bond of 
love. Although poor, and obliged to plan and scrimp and 
pinch to live from day to day, they make the little brown 
house which holds them a genuine paradise. To be sure 
the younger ones grumble occasionally at having nothing 
but potatoes and bread six days in the week, but that can 
hardly be regarded as a defect either of character or disposi- 
tion. Some of the home-scenes in which these little Pep- 
pers are the actors are capitally described, and make the 
reader long to take part in them. The description of the 
baking of the birthday cake by the children during the 
absence of the mother ; the celebration of the first Christ- 
mas, and the experiences of the family with the measles are 
portions of the book which will be thoroughly enjoyed. A 
good deal of ingenuity is displayed by the author in bring- 
ing the little Peppers out of their poverty and giving them a 
start in life. The whole change is made to turn on the 
freak of the youngest of the cluster, the three-year old 
Phronsie, who insisted on sending a gingerbread boy to a 
rich old man who was spending the summer at the village 
hotel. The old gentleman after laughing himself sick at the 
ridiculous character of the present, called to see her, and is 
so taken with the whole family that he insists upon carrying 
the eldest girl liome with him to be educated. How she 
went, and what she did, and how the rest of the family 
finally followed her, with the rather unlooked-for discovery of 
relationship at the close, make up the substance of a dozen 
or more interesting chapters. It ought, for the lesson it 
teaches, to be put into the hands of every boy and girl »n, 
the country. It is very fully and finely illustrated and 
bound in elegant form, and it will find prominent place 
among the higher class of iuvenile presentation books 
coming holiday season. 











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